#saltommy

He shakes his head and rubs his hands over his face.

Firehose: I don't know how to do this. The app part. Just so you know.

He hits send before he can panic, he shoves his phone into his pocket. The stairs are unforgiving. Buck takes them slower than he used to. Third floor. Fourth. Fifth.

By the sixth landing his thigh is burning, the kind of pain that feels threaded through bone instead of muscle. He pauses like he’s checking something on his clipboard, like he’s reviewing something on the page. He shifts his weight to his good leg.

No one notices.

The building manager is still talking, voice echoing up the stairwell. “Elevator’s been down since Tuesday. Parts are on backorder. We’ve got a temporary inspection scheduled next month but…”

“Sprinkler heads on this floor were replaced last year?” Buck asks, jotting a note. Clipboard resting long against his forearm. He’s good at this part. He checks the dates and the pressure gauges, the tag then makes neat notes.

But by the time they reach the roof access door, his molars rub together.

The manager fumbles with the key ring. “You used to run into this stuff, right?” he says casually. “Fires. Must’ve been something.”

Buck’s pen stills as he puts on an easy smile. “Different life,” he forces a chuckle. “I just make sure the paperwork’s clean now.”

The roof is bright and wind-swept. The city stretches out, sirens wail off in the distance. He doesn’t look toward them.

He finishes his inspection and hands over a copy with a smile, the kind of grin that doesn’t require anything of him. By the time he makes it back down to street level, the burn in his leg has settled into a dull throb.

He tells himself it’s manageable. But, in his company truck, he sits through a few songs without pulling away from the curb.

Tommy's at Harbor when he notices he has a few notifications. Sal forwards them with a single question mark. Tommy reads it mid-shift, standing in the equipment bay with one hand braced on a helo skid. His thumb traces over I don't know how to do this and something in his chest pulls taut.

He checks over Sal and his schedule. T: Italian, he agrees and adds. Thursday? Then he pockets the phone and tries not to think about blue eyes and steam-slicked shoulders.

Buck agrees to Thursday, he unlocks the screen at another ding. T: Worst late-night food decision you’ve ever made. Go.

He exhales through his nose, something close to a laugh catching in his chest. That’s not what he expected. He leans his head back against the seat and types. Firehose: Gas station sushi. 2 a.m. Never again.

The reply comes faster than it should.

T: Bold. Reckless. I respect it.

A second notification.

S: That’s not reckless. That’s a cry for help.

Buck stares at the screen. The throb in his leg is still there. The paperwork is still on the passenger seat. The follow-up appointment reminder he hasn’t opened is buried somewhere in his email.

But for a second, just a few, everything feels easier. He types back before he can overthink it.

Firehose: You offering intervention? Or just better sushi?

He watches the typing dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. He shouldn’t like that. But he does.

The light turns green and someone honks. Buck tosses the phone onto the passenger seat and pulls forward, heart beating a little faster than it has any right to.

Right before the next red light it buzzes again. He doesn’t look. He manages to make it home before he caves.

T: We can definitely offer better sushi.

S: And supervision. Clearly you need it.

Buck huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.

Supervision.

He’s twenty-six years old and budgeting for a possible amputation and somehow this is the thing that makes his chest loosen.

If anyone checks in, he tells himself, I’ll cancel.

If Maddie calls and asks how he’s really doing.

If Eddie calls about the lawsuit.

If Bobby…

He doesn’t finish that thought. Everyone should know by now that he dropped the lawsuit. It’s public record. It’s union chatter. It’s the kind of thing that spreads fast in a department built on rumor and pride.

Someone should have noticed. Someone should’ve already asked why by now?

He tries not to think too much about the 118 and how his sister seemed to have picked her boyfriend over him. He tries his best not to think too much about the two men who somehow make him feel seen through a few sentences and a photograph of hands.

He doesn't even know what they look like.

The restaurant is small. Red-checkered tablecloths, wine bottles lining the walls, the smell of garlic and basil thick enough to taste. Buck arrives fifteen minutes early because that's what you do when you're trying not to look desperate.

He's in dark jeans and a green sweater he found in the back of his closet. He takes a corner booth and watches the door.

They walk in together.

That's the first thing Buck registers. Not separately, not one trailing the other.  Together. Shoulders close, hands brushing at the threshold before the taller one reaches to hold the door.

Tommy is broad like his body was built for lifting and carrying and holding. Dark hair silvering at the temples, cleft, jaw sharp enough to cut. He scans the room with the kind of awareness Buck recognizes from men who've spent years reading environments for threats. Cop?

Sal is leaner. A hair shorter, wearing a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled. He moves like someone accustomed to being listened to. His gaze finds Buck before Tommy's does, and holds eye contact for three seconds. Then Sal's mouth curves slightly.

Tommy leans into Sal, Buck can see him murmur something under his breath. Sal doesn’t look away from Buck when he answers, but his hand comes up smoothing the front of Tommy’s collar

They cross the room.

Buck's heart is doing something inconvenient in his throat.

"Firehose?" Tommy says, and his voice is exactly what Buck imagined.

"I…" Buck's voice cracks on the single syllable. He clears his throat. "Evan. I go by Evan."

Sal slides into the booth across from him. Tommy settles beside Sal, close enough that their shoulders touch.

"Evan," Sal repeats, like he's tasting it. "I'm Sal. This is Tommy."

Evan.

It lands strange in his own ears. He hasn't been Evan in years—not since he showed up at the 118 with too much attitude and not enough sense, not since Bobby handed him turnout gear and a nameplate and said welcome aboard, Buck.

Buck was the guy who ran into burning buildings. Buck was the guy who dated Abby and Ali and Taylor, who cracked jokes in the engine bay and pissed off his captain and saved lives.

Because Buck died on that asphalt. And no one noticed.

"Hi," Buck manages, his smile widening as he shoves the thought away.

"Hi," Tommy says back, his voice is deep and it does shit to Buck's stomach.

Buck's palms are sweating against his jeans. "I don't actually know what I'm doing here."

"Neither do we," Tommy says easily. "First time for everything."

The wine helps.

So does the food. So does the way they don't stare at him like he's a meal, don't push, don't fill every silence with pressure disguised as conversation.

Tommy asks about his work. Buck hesitates. He knows they're wondering why the hell he ended up on that site.

"Fire safety inspector," he says. "Commercial buildings mostly. Sprinkler systems, extinguishers, egress compliance."

Sal tilts his head. "You like it?"

Buck's leg throbs under the table. "It's fine," he says. "It pays… most of the bills."

Tommy nods like he understands something. "There's dignity in keeping things from burning down before they start."

Buck nods. He wants to ask what they do, but he knows the rules. You don't ask. Whatever they did, they made enough to be on that app. The watch on Sal's wrist is not cheap. But Buck doesn't ask.

Tommy distracts him. "When you suggested Italian, Sal sent me this place inside of ninety seconds."

Sal doesn't deny it. "They serve carbonara. The only authentic version west of the Hudson."

"You've tested this hypothesis," Tommy says.

"I've been thorough."

Buck watches them, the way they finish each other's sentences, the way Sal's shoulder stays pressed against Tommy's the whole meal.

He wonders what it would feel like to be that known. "I should probably explain," Buck says, when the pasta is mostly gone and the wine bottle is nearly empty. "The profile. The… all of it."

"You don't owe us an explanation," Tommy reassures.

"I know. I just…" Buck runs his hand through his hair. "The bio. That wasn't a bit. I really don't know what I'm doing. And I'm not…"

He trails off.

Just say it. You're already here.

“I know I’m not what you expect to find on there,” he says finally. “I’m not doing this for drugs. Or tuition. Or some fantasy about being flown to Paris.” His mouth twists. “I like sex. And I need money.”

The words sit between them. Ugly. True.

He cringes. "Shit that... came out wrong."

Sal's hand finds Tommy's on the table. He expects them to flinch. To exchange one of those looks couples do, the ones that say we should leave, this is getting weird. Instead, Tommy just tilts his head. "Did it?"

Buck blinks. "What?"

"Came out wrong." Tommy presses. "You said you like sex. You need money. Those are just facts."

Buck stares at him. He doesn't know what to do with that.

"We're looking for someone," Sal explains, "to have dinner with. To talk to. To…" He pauses as he searches for the right word. "To take care of."

Buck's breath catches. Sal doesn't look away from him.

"It's something Tommy and I have always had to navigate," he continues. "I'm built a certain way. I show up. I provide. I don't… always know how to soften."

Tommy's thumb brushes once over Sal's knuckles.

Sal exhales slowly. "There are parts of him that need someone softer, someone to care for. I would rather make space for that than pretend it doesn't exist. So I'd rather invite someone in," Sal finishes, "than risk losing him because he's missing something I can't give."

Tommy nods. “And this isn’t all just for me. Sal needs somewhere to put it too.” He glances at his husband soft and amused. “He won’t admit it, but he’s got more care in him than he knows what to do with. It just… gets stuck. He holds it tight. And when I need space, he doesn’t always know where to put it.”

Sal doesn’t deny it. His eyes soften as he looks at Tommy, a small smile curving at the edge of his mouth.

Buck looks between them. He came here expecting transaction. Dinner for company, money for sex, clear lines and cleaner exits. He didn't come here for this… two men who love each other, who are trying to love each other better, and somehow think he might be part of that equation after a week of texting.

“You want to…” He stops. Swallows. Tries again. “You want me to be what? A project?”

Tommy’s mouth quirks and his eyes crinkle. “God, no.”

“A plant?” Buck presses, because it’s easier to joke than to admit he’s shaken. “Something to water?”

Tommy huffs a soft laugh and scoops up a spoonful of spumoni. He holds it out. “Open,” he says lightly.

Buck hesitates for half a second. Then he leans forward, wraps his mouth around the spoon, and pulls back.

The ice cream is cold and sweet.

Sal watches the entire exchange, heat flickers in his gut. Buck looks up with a faint smear of cream at the corner of his mouth. Tommy reaches out without thinking and wipes it away with his thumb.

Sal's gaze catches Tommy's, and Tommy sees it, the spark Sal hadn’t planned on.

Tommy lifts one eyebrow. Just to say. Oh.

Sal exhales slowly. “You wouldn’t be a project,” he says evenly.

Buck watches as Tommy scoops up another bite. “Then what would I be?”

Sal meets his eyes, and his grin grows. “Someone we choose.”

Buck holds his gaze. “And what does that cost?” he asks.

Sal doesn’t bristle. "You’d be compensated,” he says evenly. “That part doesn’t go away.”

Tommy nods. “We’re not pretending this isn’t an arrangement.”

Buck’s shoulders ease a fraction. “How much?” he asks.

Tommy and Sal look at each other. The phone passes between them. Tommy types, Sal reads, Sal types, Tommy reads. A quiet negotiation conducted in thumb-swipes and shared glances.

Then Sal slides the phone across the table toward Evan.

Buck does the math in his head before he can stop himself. Rent. Medical bills. The credit card he’s been pretending doesn’t exist.

“That’s generous,” he says quietly.

“It’s fair,” Sal corrects.

“And expectations?” Buck asks.

Sal’s voice stays steady. “Dinner. Time. Honesty. Sex. Nothing you don’t want.” Tommy’s gaze stays soft on him. “And if you change your mind, you say so.”

Buck stares at them, his heartbeat roars in his ear.

Sex is easy. Sex he understands. Sex is something he enjoys.

Dinner. Time. Honesty.

Those are the things he fucks up.

His leg aches under the table. His bank account is a slow bleed. The number on the screen is enough to buy him breathing room. Enough to quiet the panic that wakes him at three in the morning.

He drags his thumb along the condensation on his wine glass. But right now, sitting across from two men who look at him like he's worth those numbers, he feels something he hasn't felt in months.

Seen.

"I'd like that," he says. "I think."

Tommy smiles. Sal inclines his head.

The check comes.

Tommy reaches for it but Sal is already sliding a card into the folder. Buck's hand is still halfway to his own wallet, frozen mid-reach like his body hasn't caught up to the fact that he's not the one paying tonight.

"We said we'd cover it," Sal reminds him with a firmness that makes Buck’s stomach swoop. He pulls his hand back slowly. Tucks it under the table.

Outside, the air is cool and the streetlights are flickering on. They stand in a loose triangle on the sidewalk, none of them quite ready to leave. Tommy checks his phone.

"How about Sunday?" Tommy suggests. "We'll cook."

Buck blinks. "You cook?"

Tommy's mouth curves. "Sal cooks. I have opinions."

Sal inclines his head, acknowledging the truth of this. "He's useful for tasting. Less useful for anything else."

"Hey…"

"You boiled the wine before you added the rice."

"Tory the recipe said…"

"The recipe did not say that, Thomas."

Buck watches them, the easy back-and-forth, the way they've seemed to have had this argument a hundred times and will have it a hundred more.

"Our place," Sal murmurs, redirecting. "Sunday. Seven o'clock."

Buck's nods, his chest squeezing a little. "You want to do this again?"

Sal looks at him. "I do. Do you, Evan?"

Buck thinks about his empty apartment. The unopened envelope on his table. The way his phone hasn't buzzed with a message from anyone who actually sees him in weeks.

He thinks about how Evan felt in Sal's mouth.

"Yeah," he says. "I do."

Tommy's hand finds the small of Sal's back as they watch Evan's Uber pull away.

"He doesn't know," Sal stated quietly.

"Know what?"

"How to be taken care of."

Tommy watches the taillights disappear around the corner. "Guess we'll have to teach him," he murmurs. "He wants it though."

Evan doesn't sleep that night.

Not because of his leg. Not because of the case files spread across his coffee table, the reports he should have filed yesterday.

He doesn't sleep because he keeps replaying the evening.

Sal's hand around his wine glass, his accent. Tommy's laugh, his cleft. The way they looked at each other, looked at him, like he was someone worth looking at.

His phone glows on the nightstand.

Firehose: I had a good time tonight. Thank you.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

T: We did too.

S: Sunday. Don't be late.

Evan stares at the messages, despite everything, the ache in his leg, the weight in his chest, the quiet of his empty apartment, he smiles.

Firehose: Wouldn't dream of it.

He falls asleep with the phone in his hand.