Just be Safe Tonight (chptr 5)
A/N: 42 pages in and i havent even written any sad and hurtful stuff or smutt :<
Back at the apartment, you dropped your shopping bags by the door, the sleepy fox plush tucked under one arm. Buck kicked off his boots and walked straight to the bedroom with one of the heavier bags, calling over his shoulder, “You wanna take the closet or the dresser first?”
You followed with a grin. “Closet. I’ve got more hangable things now.”
He laughed. “I was afraid of that.”
It took the better part of an hour — sorting hangers, folding clothes, clearing out space on the top shelf of the closet for your things. Buck moved with casual ease, lifting and shifting without complaint, even when you reorganized the entire left side of the dresser because his sock system was chaos.
At one point, you caught him just standing there, watching as you folded a stack of tank tops into your drawer.
Buck shook his head with a soft smile. “It’s just… this room feels different now. In a good way.”
The candles you liked were on the nightstand now. Your slippers were tucked under the edge of the bed. Your fox plush sat on your pillow like a sleepy sentinel.
It didn’t feel like you were borrowing anymore.
It felt like you were home.
You ended up ordering Thai food. Buck insisted on paying — “It’s housewarming, not extortion,” he joked — and you both dug in straight from the containers, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch.
The living room light was off. Only the flicker of the TV lit your faces.
Halfway through the movie, you leaned your head on his shoulder. He didn’t say anything — just slid his arm behind you and gently pulled you closer.
You stayed there, pressed into his side, stomach full and chest warm. When you laughed at a line in the movie, he looked down and smiled at you, not at the screen.
“You always do that,” you said, noticing.
“Look at me when you laugh.”
He shrugged lightly. “I like seeing you happy.”
You swallowed, lips parting.
Your heart was hammering before you even knew why.
He just leaned his head against yours and held you tighter.
It was late when the movie ended, and the dishes were finally cleared from the coffee table.
You stood up to stretch, arms over your head, and turned to see him watching you again — eyes soft, tired but full of something deeper than just affection.
You hesitated at the hallway, one hand brushing the doorframe. “I… I’m gonna crash.”
He nodded, standing slowly. “Me too.”
You walked into the bedroom together. There was no awkwardness. No forced space. Just you pulling back the covers while he shut off the light.
You both climbed in. Under the same blanket.
When your knees brushed under the sheets, you didn’t pull away.
When his arm slipped gently across your waist, you didn’t stiffen.
You shifted until you were curled against his chest, one of his hands smoothing gently up your spine, slow and reassuring.
Neither of you said “this is different.” You didn’t need to.
It wasn’t a crash or a confession. It was quiet. Easy. Like something that had been waiting for the right moment.
When you whispered, “Goodnight, Seb,” he kissed your forehead and murmured, “Night, sweetheart,” like it had always belonged there.
You fell asleep wrapped up in him — your fingers lightly gripping the hem of his shirt, his hand resting low on your back — feeling not just wanted but chosen.
Sunlight stretched across the sheets in soft gold streaks. The room was still, quiet except for Buck’s slow, steady breathing. His arm was still slung over your waist. His chin was resting on the top of your head.
Didn’t want to break the stillness of it all.
You lay there for a while, letting yourself take it in. The weight of him against you. The rise and fall of his chest. The way his fingers twitched slightly every few minutes, like he was chasing something in a dream.
Eventually, you shifted to look at him.
He stirred, brow furrowing a little.
“Mm… what time is it?” he rasped, voice rough with sleep.
“Early,” you whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
But he cracked an eye open anyway, taking in the sight of you curled into the blankets with him.
You felt your cheeks warm. “Hi.”
“Best I’ve had in a long time.”
You both stayed like that for a while — half under the covers, half-tangled, faces close but still shy in the daylight.
Eventually, you got up and padded into the kitchen to make coffee. He followed ten minutes later in his sweatpants and a tee, hair wild, rubbing at his jaw like he wasn’t fully awake.
You handed him a mug without a word. He bumped his knuckles against yours in thanks.
Breakfast was simple—eggs, toast, quiet music playing through the speakers. You cleaned up together, bumping shoulders, sharing stupid little smiles.
And when you grabbed your toothbrush after — the new one you’d bought on your shopping trip — and saw it sitting in the holder next to his, the strangest, softest feeling hit you:
And it was just the beginning.
Saturday Morning, Pancakes and Kisses
You weren’t sure when it happened — when weekends stopped feeling like “days off” and started feeling like your life.
Waking up in Buck’s bed on a lazy Saturday morning, legs tangled under warm sheets, the sunlight creeping in, and his arm slung heavy over your waist like he’d always belonged there — that was your new normal.
Especially the way he murmured, “Five more minutes,” against your shoulder, even though he was already half-awake and nosing into your hair.
“No one’s making you get up,” you teased softly, stretching beneath the sheets.
He hummed. “I want pancakes.”
You twisted to face him. “That’s your reason for staying in bed?”
“Correction—” he kissed your forehead, “—you are. But pancakes are a close second.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were already smiling.
Twenty Minutes Later — Kitchen Chaos (the sweet kind)
Buck cooked like a man with a plan.
You watched him flip pancakes one-handed while frying bacon in the other pan, completely in control, barefoot in sweats and a loose tee. Hair messy. Jaw dusted with the start of weekend stubble. Every few minutes he leaned over the counter to sip coffee from a mug that said World’s Okayest Operator (a gag gift, you were told).
“Did you go to chef school behind my back?” you asked, peeking over his shoulder.
He chuckled, “Canadian grandmas. You grow up near one, you learn fast.”(that’s acc true lol that’s how I learnt to cook)
“You’ve been holding out on me.”
“Maybe I wanted you to think I was just rugged and charming.”
“You are rugged and charming,” you said easily, sliding your arms around his waist from behind. “The pancakes are just bonus points.”
His hand slid down to squeeze yours gently where they rested on his stomach. “Careful, sweetheart. I might make this a Saturday tradition.”
You smiled into his back. “Promise?”
He turned in your arms slowly, the stove now off, plates warming nearby.
When he looked down at you, his voice dropped a little. “Yeah. I promise.”
You didn’t kiss him then.
But you were already thinking about it.
Later — Couch Time and Lazy Play
After breakfast and the world’s laziest round of dish-cleaning, you both migrated to the couch. Buck pulled the throw blanket over both your legs, remote in one hand, your thigh resting comfortably against his.
“You wanna finish that dumb show you started without me?” he asked, raising a brow.
“I started it before we were officially a couple.”
You turned, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Don’t play dumb. You kissed me with tongue. That’s a contract.”
He grinned. “In that case—” he leaned in and kissed you again, this time slow, firm, a little deeper, “—guess I’m locked in.”
You kissed him back, fingers curling gently into the hem of his shirt. The remote was forgotten. The show didn’t matter. All you cared about was the way his lips moved against yours, lazy and teasing, like he had nowhere else to be.
You shifted into his lap without fully thinking about it — straddling him as his hands settled naturally on your waist, his thumbs brushing the skin just beneath your tank top.
Soft lips, gentle pressure, then more. His teeth grazed your bottom lip and you gasped just enough for him to pull you in again, slow and deliberate.
He pulled back slightly to catch his breath, resting his forehead against yours.
“I could get used to this,” he whispered.
You swallowed, dazed. “Already am.”
That Night — Domestic Glow
Dinner was simple — stir fry with whatever vegetables you had, Buck letting you chop while he handled the heat. You moved in sync, dancing around the small kitchen like it was choreographed. Elbows bumped. You snuck bites. He flicked water at you for stealing mushrooms.
Afterward, you lit a candle in the living room, curled up beside him again, and let yourselves just be.
Just soft touches. Laughter. The quiet hum of music in the background.
Later that night, when you crawled into bed with your legs wrapped around his and your cheek resting against his chest, you didn’t feel like a guest. Or even a girlfriend.
Scene — Normal Days & A Text From the Past
The week passed in a quiet rhythm.
Nothing extraordinary happened, and that was maybe the best part. No emergency calls. No surprise deployments. No sudden shifts in tone. Just a steady routine, wrapped in the newness of something warm and quietly grounding.
You worked five straight evening shifts — tips decent, feet sore, apron smelling faintly of fryer oil by the end of each night. But you didn’t mind.
Because now… you had something to look forward to.
Every shift ended with the same small comfort: Buck’s truck waiting at the curb, headlights off, engine idling quietly. He never texted I’m here — he just was. You’d step outside, and there he’d be. Elbow resting on the open window, one hand on the steering wheel, that soft, familiar smile in place like it belonged to you.
And every time, he’d say it the same way:
Those three words erased any exhaustion you carried.
Sometimes, you’d talk the whole drive home — about weird customers, the guy in the kitchen who kept burning toast, or Buck’s commentary on the shows you were watching together. Other nights, the ride was silent, but never empty. Just music and the soft presence of someone who made everything feel lighter.
At home, he’d heat up leftovers if you were too tired to eat, or press a glass of water into your hands before you even sat down. You’d peel off your work clothes, change into something soft, and collapse onto the couch with your legs across his lap.
By Wednesday, you realized: this was the first time in a long while that you weren’t living in survival mode.
It was the last shift of the week, and you had a bounce in your step.
You texted Buck at your last break.
You: “One more table to close out. Be home in 30.”
Buck: “Got a blanket ready and your favorite snacks on standby. Wear something warm. It’s cold out.”
You smiled, tucking your phone into your apron just as the kitchen called out your last order. Routine. Safe. Easy.
That’s why the message that came through just as you stepped outside into the chill night air hit you harder than it should have.
Mom: “Call me when you get a chance. Not an emergency, but it’s important.”
You hadn’t spoken to them since the fallout with Lex. Since the shouting match that ended with you walking out and vowing not to need anything from anyone.
You stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
Then you heard Buck’s voice from across the parking lot.
There he was, leaning against the truck, same hoodie, same easy presence. He didn’t ask why you looked shaken. Just opened the door and waited.
You climbed in quietly, phone still glowing in your palm.
“You okay?” he asked after a moment, voice soft.
You nodded. Then, after a pause: “My mom texted.”
That got his attention. “Yeah?”
You nodded again. “Said it’s not an emergency… but something important.”
He just reached over, rested a warm hand on your thigh, and said, “You don’t have to deal with it alone.”
The words hit gently. No pressure. Just presence.
You didn’t respond right away.
But you turned your hand over, and let his fingers thread through yours the rest of the drive home.
Scene — The Call, the Decision, and Buck Beside Her
That night, after you’d kicked off your work shoes and curled up on the couch in one of Buck’s hoodies, the message from your mom still burned in the back of your mind. You hadn’t replied. Not yet.
Buck came in a minute later with two mugs — yours full of tea, his full of whatever pitch-black coffee he drank at night like a madman.
He handed yours over, then sat beside you. His eyes scanned your face, gentle but focused.
You stared at the mug for a second. Then nodded.
“Yeah. Just… not sure what I’m walking into.”
“I’ll be here,” he said simply.
You reached for your phone, already shaking a little.
Her voice was lighter than you remembered. Softer. But there was hesitation there too — like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to call you that anymore.
“Hey,” you said. Your voice was flat, careful. You could feel Buck’s fingers brushing against your knee, his thumb slowly rubbing circles through the fabric of your leggings.
There was silence on the other end for a moment.
Then: “I didn’t call to dredge anything up. Just… something’s come up. With your dad. He’s fine,” she added quickly, “but he’s going in for a minor surgery next week. Outpatient. Nothing life-threatening.”
“I just thought… maybe you’d want to know. And maybe visit. If that’s something you’re comfortable with.”
You didn’t answer right away. Because you didn’t know. Your last words to them hadn’t exactly been gentle. You’d slammed a door and said you didn’t need their “warnings” about Lex. But in the end… they’d been right. And you’d had to learn that the hard way.
“I don’t want to argue,” you said, voice quieter. “I’m not ready for a bunch of ‘we told you so’s.’”
“I’m not calling to be right,” your mom said. “I’m calling because I’m your mother. And I miss you.”
That landed harder than you expected.
You blinked. Buck’s hand was still on your knee, calm and grounding.
You nodded to yourself. “Okay. I’ll visit.”
You heard the breath she let out.
“I’ll figure it out. I’ll let you know.”
She paused. “We’ll be here. Whenever you’re ready.”
You hung up after that. No drawn-out emotions. No sudden fixes. But… not broken anymore either.
You set your phone down and leaned your head against Buck’s shoulder.
“Was that awful?” he asked gently.
You shook your head. “No. Just… weird.”
“You did good,” he murmured.
You turned your face into his sleeve. “I don’t know if I want to go alone.”
You looked up. “You’d really come?”
Buck gave you a look. “Do you really think I’m gonna let you walk into a house full of complicated family emotions solo?”
You laughed — a small one, but real. “It’s not that dramatic.”
He leaned in, kissed your forehead. “You’re underestimating how protective I am when someone makes your face look like that.”
You leaned into him again. “It’s just gonna be weird.”
“Then I’ll be weird with you.”
The next afternoon, you stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your sweater for the fifth time. Buck was already ready — jeans, jacket, sleeves rolled up just enough to show off his forearms (unintentionally distracting). He was waiting by the door, car keys in hand.
“You good?” he asked gently.
You turned, hand on your stomach. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”
He crossed the room, wrapped an arm around your waist, and kissed your temple.
“Worst case?” he said softly. “We visit, you stay twenty minutes, and then we go get burgers.”
“And if they try anything dumb, I will politely but firmly pull you back into the truck.”
You laughed into his chest, nerves easing just a little.
And when you arrived at your parents’ place, he kept a warm, steady hand on the small of your back the entire walk up the driveway.
Your stomach was in knots the entire drive.
Even with Buck’s hand resting steady and warm on your thigh, the closer you got to your parents’ house, the more that old tension tightened in your chest — that bracing-for-impact feeling that hadn’t hit you this hard in months.
You parked at the curb, not the driveway — not quite ready to make it look official.
Buck turned the ignition off and glanced at you. “We don’t have to do this.”
You looked at the house. Familiar siding. Same old curtains in the front room. Same hanging flower basket your mom always tended to, even when she claimed she hated gardening.
You swallowed hard. “Just… don’t leave me alone in there for too long.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Your mom opened it faster than you expected — like she’d been waiting by the window. She wore a warm cardigan and surprise all over her face.
“Oh—wow. You brought—” Her eyes moved from you to Buck. “Well. Hello.”
Buck smiled and extended a hand. “Sebastien.”
Her eyebrows lifted just a little as she shook his hand. “I didn’t know you were bringing someone.”
You gave her a quick, nervous smile. “He insisted.”
“I can see that,” she said, stepping aside to let you both in. “Come in, come in.”
The living room looked exactly the same — beige couch, throw pillows that didn’t match, your dad’s recliner in the corner like a throne. You could almost hear the echo of every old argument you’d had there.
Buck hovered close but let you take the lead.
“Your dad’s just in the kitchen,” your mom said, observing you. Then, more gently: “You look… better. Happier.”
“Thanks,” you said softly. “I am.”
Your dad looked up as you entered, mid-sip from a chipped mug. His eyes locked on Buck immediately.
Buck extended a hand again. “Sir.”
Your dad looked at it. Then shook it — firm, but cautious.
“You military?” he asked, not even bothering to say hello.
“Yes, sir. Canadian Forces before I transferred into a joint task unit.”
Your dad grunted. “Didn’t figure you’d be the type to go domestic after that.”
Buck just smiled mildly. “Turns out I’m good at other things too.”
You didn’t miss the edge in your dad’s voice. The way his eyes kept narrowing when they slid back to you. It wasn’t personal — not entirely. It was suspicion. Protective instinct, coated in pride and too many years of expecting the worst.
“You’ll have to excuse him,” your mom said quickly, handing you both drinks. “He thinks anyone who volunteers for the army is either running from something or looking for a fight.”
Your dad didn’t deny it. He just sipped his coffee and looked Buck dead in the eye.
“I’m not saying you’re a bad guy,” he said. “But I’ve seen what military men are like. They come home with anger they don’t even know they have.”
“I’ve seen that too,” he said. “And I’ve worked hard to be the kind of man who doesn’t make others pay for what he’s been through.”
Your mom glanced between the two of them, lips pressed tight.
Your dad grunted again, leaning back in his chair. “You got a temper?”
Buck’s answer was calm. “Only when someone hurts the people I care about.”
You reached out and placed your hand on Buck’s knee beneath the table — subtle, grounding.
Then, clearly: “He’s not Lex.”
Your mom glanced at you, face softening. “We know. We just… worry.”
Your dad stared at the table, then at Buck. “You staying for dinner?”
You stood on the porch while Buck talked to your mom inside. She’d surprised you — asking about how you met, how things were going, even smiling when you told her about your new drawer in his dresser. You half-expected her to say you were moving too fast, but she didn’t.
“You look like yourself again,” she said softly, while you dried a dish earlier. “Not like someone trying to be something for someone else.”
Now, outside in the cold air, you exhaled and looked up at the sky. You didn’t feel like a kid here anymore. Not this time.
Buck joined you a minute later, slipping his arm around your back.
“How bad was it?” you asked.
“Your mom offered me pie,” he said. “I think I won her over.”
Buck shrugged. “Might still want to arm-wrestle me, but I’ll take it.”
You leaned into him, forehead against his shoulder.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmured.
You smiled into his hoodie. “Thanks for coming.”
