Archive of Our Own

Eddie doesn’t mean to spy on them.

He just happens to walk into the kitchen at the exact moment Buck slams a notebook shut and Chris swipes it right off the table.

Okay, maybe he means to spy a little. But it’s his house, his kitchen, and his kid. And his-but-not-entirely-his Buck. And there’s something going on. So, no, he’s not about to apologize for walking around his own damn home.

“Hey,” he says, aiming for casual. He tosses in a smile for good measure — easy, practiced, nothing to see here. “What’s going on?”

Chris ducks his head immediately, gaze skimming the now-empty table. Buck’s already straightened, smile too wide, too polished.

“Nothing,” Buck says, just a little too fast. “Just… you know. Research.”

Chris risks a glance at Buck, then at Eddie. “Yeah. School stuff. About, uh—convection currents.”

“Convection currents,” Eddie echoes, raising an eyebrow. “That so.”

Buck nods. The grin’s still frozen in place like it’s been pinned there, and it only makes things worse. They’re not bad liars in the obvious sense — there’s no fidgeting or stammering — but they’re too in sync. Too careful. Like two halves of a secret trying too hard not to touch in front of him.

He strolls to the fridge and yanks it open, letting the cool air spill over his skin. He’s not hungry. Didn't even come in here for food. He just needed to be near them. Near this — whatever it is that’s been blooming between Buck and Chris, slowly curling itself into the spaces where Eddie used to fit.

Hence: the spying. In his own damn house.

Buck’s been acting weird lately. Smiling at his phone, disappearing after shifts, laughing quietly to himself like he’s in on a private joke that doesn’t include Eddie anymore. The only time Buck ever stops being weird is when he’s with Chris. When he gives him his full attention, like nothing else in the world could possibly matter. 

Like now, for example.

He’s not jealous of his son. He’s not. 

Eddie tightens his grip on the fridge handle with both hands, fingers going white, just to stop himself from doing something incredibly stupid like turning around, grabbing Buck by the shirt and ask what the hell are you smiling about lately and why is it never at me anymore?

Instead, he stares blankly at a half-empty carton of juice. “Carry on, then.”

“Oh, we’re done!” Buck says.

“I’ve got homework,” Chris adds, already halfway up, the scrape of his chair too loud in the kitchen.

Eddie turns slightly. “So this wasn’t for homework?”

Chris freezes in the doorway. “I have… other homework,” he says, then bolts.

Eddie looks at Buck. He’s gone a little pink, and the too-wide grin has softened into something sheepish and irritatingly fond, like he’s still carrying the echo of whatever they were working on between his cheeks.

Buck stands, then stretches — arms high, chest puffing, back arching, the way he always does when he gets a little awkward, when he doesn’t quite know how to shift from one movement to the next. He doesn’t know Eddie knows that. 

“Gotta say,” he says, all breezy charm, “you’ve got a pretty smart kid.”

He pats Eddie’s arm on the way out — just a brief brush of fingertips against bare skin, lingering half a second too long. The same way he always does, like its muscle memory. 

And then he’s gone, footsteps retreating down the hallway after Chris, easy and unbothered.

The place where Buck touched him still burns. A slow, quiet heat that spreads from his arm to his chest, where it curls into something hollow and aching. The same kind of ache that always flares up when Buck’s near but not close. 

It didn’t used to be like this.

A week ago, his life was easy. Effortless. Buck would laugh at his jokes without hesitation, steal bites off his plate without asking, hang around long after dinner just to argue over movie rankings or whether WD-40 really was a fix-all.

Now it’s all weird energy and careful distance. Deflections. But the too-sweet smiles Buck keeps giving — ones Eddie catches from the corner of his eye when Buck thinks no one’s watching — is what gets him the most.

Because that smile, the soft one, the one that lights up Buck’s whole damn face like sunrise breaking through smog, that smile used to be for him. And for Chris.

Not for whoever he’s texting now.

Someone who makes him smile soft and stupid. Someone who makes his thumbs move fast and his eyes go all tender.

Eddie doesn’t even know what hurts more. The secrets Buck’s keeping, or the way he still touches Eddie like second nature, like nothing’s changed, while handing that smile away like it never belonged to him in the first place.

At the firehouse, Buck’s practically glued to his phone between calls. So much to the point he has Hen nudging him with a teasing shoulder bump, asking, "Who's got you grinning like that?"

Buck just shrugs, all bashful and bright-eyed, and says absolutely nothing. 

Asshole. 

Eddie tells himself it’s none of his business. Buck’s allowed to date. He should date. He deserves someone who makes him feel that kind of happiness.

He just thought—

Well. He just thought he made Buck happy. 

Doesn’t understand why Buck’s needs to go chasing happiness elsewhere. 

That same night, when Buck drops him off and doesn’t come in — doesn’t linger in the car, doesn’t ask if he wants to watch something, doesn’t even walk him to the door — Eddie ends up standing alone in his kitchen, staring at the foil-covered plate of quesadillas in the fridge, the ones he made earlier today. 

Buck’s favourite, just in case. 

Asshole. 

By the end of the week, Eddie’s starting to dread the shift schedule, because the longer he’s around Buck, the more it feels like trying to hold onto water with bare hands. Buck’s laughter still rings bright when Eddie cracks a joke, and he still says Eds in that way that makes Eddie’s stomach flip, still lets his fingers brush too long when they pass each other in the locker room or the truck.

But then his phone buzzes, and Buck’s gone again: head down, thumb tapping fast. That same stupid smile curling up like someone’s just told him I miss you.

Like whoever’s on the other end is the only sun in Buck’s sky these days.

And it’s not Eddie. He knows that much. His phone’s been radio silent from Buck-notifications.

At least when Chris is around, Eddie can pretend they’re still in sync, the three of them, orbiting some shared center of gravity. It’s easier to forget what’s changed when Buck’s usual phone-addicted hands are busy helping with homework or stealing Chris’s fries.

But when it’s just the two of them? It’s un-fucking-bearable.

They head to the bar after shift—the usual crew, the usual drinks, the usual low buzz of a Wednesday night. It’s all comfortingly familiar. Almost.

Tonight, Eddie picks the seat across from Buck. Tactical move. Easier to watch him from here without feeling the heat of his arm pressed close, without having to twist his neck all night just to see the curve of Buck’s smile.

He ends up between Ravi and Hen. Their presence is warm, steady. But it’s not the same as Buck’s. It never is.

At some point, Buck laughs — eyes glued to his phone, thumb flicking fast — and Eddie catches it. Not so much as catching, considering Eddie’s been staring at him all night, but still. He sees the way Buck’s whole face lights up, the pink blooming high on his cheeks when he glances up and realizes Eddie’s looking.

“You planning on socializing tonight, lover boy?” Chimney teases, nudging Buck with a pointed elbow.

Buck laughs, beaming like he’s got stars caught between his teeth, and locks his phone. Doesn’t put it away.  

Asshole.

Chim grins, turning toward the rest of the group with exaggerated eyebrows, landing on Eddie like you seeing this? Eddie looks away fast, jaw tightening. The ice in his glass clinks too loud when he picks it up.

He stays quiet for most of the night. Lets the others carry the chatter — Chimney trading stories with Ravi, Hen mocking the playlist, someone groaning about the shift calendar. Eddie tunes them all out and pretends to care about whatever game’s playing on the mounted TV above the bar. Pretends the flicker of Buck’s phone screen doesn’t draw his eyes like a magnet every damn time.

But it does. And every time Buck leans in with that dreamy, private look, Eddie feels it like a slow, sharp needle under his skin.

So he does the only thing he can think of. He throws himself into planning Buck’s birthday. Not just any birthday — the birthday. The kind that shouts: I still know you better than anyone else.

By the time he drags Hen into it, he’s already filled half a notebook with crossed-out plans and nervous half-formed ideas. It's only two weeks away. Nowhere near enough time.

“I need your help,” he says, catching her post-call by the apparatus bay, jittery with desperation.

She eyes him, amused. “With what?”

“Buck’s birthday. I want to do something good. Like, really good." His eyes flick instinctively to the loft, where Buck’s climbing the stairs, phone in hand, eyes on his phone, tap-tap-tapping away. 

Hen follows his line of sight. “Better than whatever his new... person might be doing?” she offers dryly.

Eddie stiffens. “You’re saying he has a boyfriend?”

"What?" Hen blinks. "You said that." 

“I—No, I didn’t. I mean—” He drags a hand down his face before pointing at her with said hand. “You’ve seen it, right? He’s all… secretive. Laughing at his phone all the time, texting non-stop, even on our nights out—which are sacred, by the way—he’s just... not telling me things anymore.”

Hen gives him a flat look. “Telling us.”

“What? Yeah. That’s what I said.”

She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just studies him like she’s trying to solve a particularly obvious puzzle he keeps refusing to see.

And for one sharp, uneasy second, Eddie braces for judgment. For the word overreacting. Which he’s not. Obviously. So she’d be wrong anyway.

But all she says is, “Alright.”

And just like that, the tables start to turn.

Hen starts sending him gift ideas. Eddie jots things down in the battered spiral notebook he keeps stuffed in his glove box like it’s contraband. He doesn’t know when it became his lifeline, just that it has.

It’s full of ideas, half-thoughts, memories. Things Buck’s said in passing, an old photo he lost, a pastry he tried in that little corner café on Fifth, a dumb joke that made Chris laugh so hard he nearly fell off the couch. 

Eddie’s just trying to turn those breadcrumbs into a plan. He can’t afford to mess this up. Not this year, especially not with the way everything's feeling like it’s balanced on a wire lately.

He thinks he’s being subtle. 

He’s not.

Buck notices.

“What’s in the notebook?” he asks one evening at the station, sliding into the chair across from Eddie just as he scribbles something down at the kitchen table.

Eddie snaps it shut on instinct. “Nothing.”

Buck raises a brow, unfazed, nudging the edge of the notebook with two fingers. Eddie brings it all the way to his chest. “You’ve been writing in that thing for days.”

“So?”

“So... what is it?”

“Notes,” Eddie says shortly. 

Buck huffs, tilting his head. “Since when do you take notes?”

Eddie looks up slowly, eyes cool and flat. “Since when do you care?”

The question pierces skin harder than it should. Buck blinks, sitting back.

There’s a moment of static silence, and then Buck laughs, though there’s no humor in it. It’s baffled and defensive, the kind of laugh you give when you're trying not to take something personally and failing.

“What do you mean, since when do I care?” he says. “I always care. You’ve just—You’ve been acting kinda... I don’t know. Secretive.”

He stares at Buck, pulse hammering. And then— 

Because he’s petty, because he’s hurt, because Buck started it — 

He throws it right back. The same way an animal attacks when backed into a corner. 

“I’m being secretive?” 

Buck blinks. “I mean…a little bit—”

“Seriously?” Eddie cuts in, sharper than he intends it to be. “You’re really gonna say that? You’ve been glued to your phone for days, Buck. Sneaking off. You’re laughing at texts you won’t explain, and every time I ask what’s going on, you change the subject."

“Wait—what?” Buck’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re mad because I’ve been texting people?”

“I’m not mad,” Eddie says quickly. But he is. God, he is. “I just figured if we’re keeping secrets now, I might as well join the party.”

“I don’t understand, I—" Buck fumbles, eyes squinted in confusion. "Where is this even coming from?”

Eddie opens his mouth—and nothing comes out. Isn’t that the million dollar question. Where is this coming from? He can’t explain the knot in his gut every time Buck smiles at something he’ll never be let in on. Can’t name the ache of being replaced, erased, outgrown. 

So he says nothing. Just presses his lips together and looks away.

Buck's voice drops, soft with confusion. “Did I… do something wrong?”

Eddie doesn’t even know how to answer that without looking insane, actually.

Because no, obviously not. Buck didn’t do anything wrong. He never does. He might be falling for someone else — but that’s not a crime. The crime is Eddie saying nothing. The crime is letting this drift and hoping Buck would read between the lines of something Eddie never had the courage to ask. The crime is Eddie being a damn coward and letting the most important thing in his life slip away.

Buck exhales, nodding slowly like he’s fitting all the wrong pieces together. 

“Right,” Buck says quietly, because Eddie still hasn't said anything. “Got it. Message received.”

He backs away from the table, eyes fixated on his shoes, then turns and walks out without another word.

And Eddie just sits there, notebook in front of him, useless and full of plans.

He could get up. He could go after Buck, stop him in the hallway, catch him by the elbow and say—what? What would he even say?

I’m sorry. I’m being stupid. I thought you were leaving me. I think you already have.

Because that’s what this feels like. The phone Buck never puts down, the quiet moments that used to belong to them now taken up by someone else. The soft smiles Eddie used to earn without trying, the private joy that never needed explanation — given away to someone who isn’t him. Someone Buck wants.

Eddie scrapes a hand down his face, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. He feels stupid. Petty. So unbelievably jealous he might be sick. Buck’s not his boyfriend — hell, Buck’s not even his, full stop — but that doesn’t stop the ache from taking up residence in the hollow part of his chest. Doesn’t stop the spiral that’s been building for days now, quiet and slow, like water rising under a locked door.

And the worst part is, he’s the one who let it get this far.

Buck was right there. Every single day, he was right there. Reaching out in small ways, waiting for Eddie to say something, to do something, to maybe meet him halfway. But Eddie never said anything. Never reached out and claimed what he wanted. He just... watched. 

Now Buck’s walking away, and Eddie’s still sitting here, watching, planning a birthday gift for a man he’s halfway convinced he’s already lost.

It’s late by the time he gets off shift. Too late to pick up Chris from Pepa’s, so he drives home with the windows down and the radio off, punishing himself with silence. 

But in those 39 minutes of silence, he remembers something. Something that could turn this whole thing around.

He does three things once he steps past the threshold of his house:

First, he sends Pepa a quick message apologising and promising to pick up Chris first thing in the morning. Adds two heart emojis, because that's the kind of person Buck has now made Eddie. 

Second, he sets five alarms between 7 and 7:30 a.m.

And third, against his better judgment, he calls Hen.

It’s just past midnight, and they’ve both just come off a 24-hour shift. She’s probably in bed, already half-asleep. Still, she answers on the second ring.

“He likes the tidal pools at Point Dume,” is how Eddie greets her.

There’s a pause, and then Hen’s voice, already amused. “I’m putting you on speaker.”

A second later, Karen’s voice floats through. “Hi, Eddie!”

And then, because he can’t keep it in anymore, because it’s too much and not enough all at once, he tells them.

He tells them about the day Buck took Chris to Point Dume, back in March, as one of their reclaiming-the-coast outings. How they came home sun-kissed and loud with joy, tracking sand through the entryway, talking over each other with so much excitement Eddie could barely keep up. Chris had found a starfish, purple and perfect. Buck had nearly been wiped out from exhaustion trying to keep up with the energy. 

They’d brought half the beach home in Buck’s backpack, dumped it all over the rug, and spent the whole evening flipping through blurry phone pictures like it was the most important day either of them had ever lived.

Eddie hadn’t gone with them. He can’t even remember why. A shift, maybe. Or maybe—stupidly—he thought they didn’t need him there to have fun. But what he does remember, clear as day, is the way Buck looked at him just before dinner.

“Next time,” Buck had said, soft and certain. “Just us three. Point Dume. A perfect day.”

And Eddie— God, he’d forgotten.

Not on purpose. He hadn’t meant to forget. But it got buried somewhere, under the weight of time and work and all the things he never said out loud.

Until tonight. Until he was driving home, still shaking from the non-fight fight, and the memory came back, whole and unshakable.

And suddenly, everything else in the notebook — the photos, the playlists, the pastries and inside jokes — felt insignificant in comparison.

A perfect day, Buck had said.

“It’ll be the perfect day,” Eddie says now, and his voice catches on the word perfect, fragile in a way he can’t control. His face is hot, the kind of warmth that creeps up the back of his neck and settles in his ears. He’s suddenly too aware of how he sounds, how much he wants this to be right. He hopes Hen and Karen can’t hear it.

“We could, I don’t know, stop for a bite before heading back?” he adds quickly, like momentum will make it easier. “I mean—I’ve never been to Point Dume. Do they even have—?”

“Eddie,” Karen cuts in gently. “There’s plenty of places to eat around there. Hen and I just took the kids last month.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course there’s places—” He turns, needing to move, needing to shake the nerves buzzing under his skin. He walks out of the kitchen and barely makes it a few steps before he freezes.

Buck, standing just inside the living room, quiet.

His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders curled slightly inward. He looks like he’s been standing there a while. Long enough to hear something. Maybe everything. 

Eddie’s heart plummets. “Uh—shit.”

He fumbles with the phone, Hen’s voice still coming through, confused. “Wait, what happened?”

“Nothing! I just—something came up. I’ll text.” He hangs up before she can dig deeper, then turns to Buck fully, guilt prickling hot under his skin. “How long have you been here?”

Buck doesn’t answer right away. His face is carefully neutral, but the hurt is there anyway — tucked behind his eyes, tight around the edges of his mouth. The smile he offers doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You weren’t answering your texts,” he offers as explanation. “I got in my head. I thought—” He cuts himself off, looks away. “Never mind.”

Eddie’s pulse is hammering. 

“Thought what?”

Buck doesn’t meet his gaze. “Nothing. Um. Who were you talking to?”

“No one,” Eddie says, too quickly, too loud.

The lie sits wrong between them, ugly and clumsy. Buck doesn’t call him on it — just nods once, slow and unreadable.

“What are you, uh…” Eddie falters, suddenly feeling like asking Buck what he’s doing here sounds too accusatory, too unwelcome. “Is everything okay?”

Buck shrugs, too forced. 

“Yeah. I just felt bad. About earlier.” Buck finally looks up, and the weight of it pricks his skin. “I was gonna go straight home, but then I remembered…”  He gestures vaguely like that should complete the sentence. Then stops mid-movement, as if sensing something. “You didn’t pick up Chris?”

Eddie shakes his head. “Didn’t want to wake Pepa. I’m getting him in the morning.”

Buck’s expression flickers. “You can’t,” he says, quick in a way like it slipped out before he could stop it. But he corrects his tone. “I mean— You always sleep in on Sundays. So. You should. Sleep in, I mean.”

Eddie frowns. “Buck—”

“I’ll pick up Chris,” Buck says, firm this time. “It’s no big deal.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Buck says. “Listen, I feel bad. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. You can write down whatever you want, okay? In fact, hey,” he cracks a smile that doesn’t quite land. “I’ll get you a new notebook. Fancy one. Leather-bound, maybe.”

Eddie raises a brow. “Something wrong with the one I have?”

Buck shakes his head, smiling — or again, just trying to. “Let me pick up Chris,” he says again. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen Pepa, so, you know. That’ll be nice.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, still a little dazed.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods again. “Sure.”

There’s a moment where neither of them move. Just this quiet, tense space between them. Eddie’s palms start feeling clammy, as if his skin already knows what the silence is teetering towards. 

Buck tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to keep his voice casual — but it comes out strained anyway. “So, uh. Point Dume?”

Which all but confirms what Eddie was suspecting, but his heart lurches anyway. Shit. 

Guilt rises like bile. “You heard that?”

Buck nods once, slowly. But his face gives him away. There’s no spark behind his eyes, no lightness or teasing or hell, even curiosity. He looks like someone who just got bad news.

“Yeah.”

Buck heard him. Buck knows. And he’s not… happy?

“Oh,” he says, because it’s the only thing he can think of. His mind’s blank and racing at the same time. Buck figured it out. So why does he look like that?

“That sounds nice,” Buck says, slowly and carefully like he’s piecing the words together as he goes. “Didn’t think you’d… wanted to. Because, you know, Chris and I—” 

He breaks off. His jaw works like he’s trying to swallow the rest. Like saying it out loud might make it worse.

“Anyway,” he finishes, voice smaller now. “Sorry. I won’t push.”

“You’re not pushing,” Eddie says automatically, but his voice barely sounds like his own. 

Buck just nods again, awkward. Eddie doesn’t understand what’s happening, doesn’t understand why Buck looks like he’s barely holding it together. Then:

“When—when were you gonna…?” Buck trails off, like he can’t finish the sentence.

“Friday…” he says slowly. He watches Buck’s face closely, waiting for a flicker of understanding, of hope, something. But all he sees is that same crumpled, hollow look.

It’s not like Buck needs a reminder for when his birthday is, but Eddie doesn’t know what the hell is happening here, so he just adds: “The 27th?” 

And Buck goes still.

“Oh,” he says, more of a breath than sound. His eyes are now shining with the kind of wet that’s barely holding back a wave. What the hell?  

“That’s… okay.” Then a small half-laugh escapes him, too wrecked. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

It lands wrong. All of it. Every word.

Eddie steps forward, confused and thrown. Did Buck not want to go to Point Dume? Eddie had been so sure of it, and unless something's changed—

“Buck—?”

“I’m gonna go,” Buck says, quick and clipped, already turning. “Gotta be up early to pick up Chris.”

And just like that, he’s gone. 

For the second time today. 

Eddie just stands there for a second, staring at the space where Buck had been. At the door that didn’t slam but still left a ringing in his ears.

What the hell just happened?

He runs the conversation over again. The phone call. The timing. The way Buck had settled inside his house. Quiet and careful like he didn’t know where he stood anymore. The look on his face when he’d said Point Dume, like the words themselves had hurt to say.

Eddie had thought — God, he’d honestly believed — that Buck would understand. That he’d know. 

That Eddie’s doing all this for him. 

But the look on Buck’s face…

Not surprise. Not joy. Just that...smile that didn’t reach his eyes. That quiet, polite sadness. Like Eddie had said the exact wrong thing at the worst possible time.

Had Buck made plans with someone else?

Maybe that's why he’d looked so wrecked — because Eddie barged in with his own surprise, uninvited and too late. Always too damn late. 

He tips his head back against the couch cushion and scrubs a hand down his face. His chest feels tight. His head’s pounding.

He’d tried. He was trying. All he wanted was to do something meaningful, something that might show Buck how much he mattered. And somehow, it still feels like he messed it up.

Eventually, he pushes himself off the couch long enough to turn off the lights and grab the throw blanket from the armrest. He thinks about brushing his teeth, changing out of his clothes, checking his phone again, calling—

He doesn't do any of it.

Just curls up in the dark and lets the weight of the day and the quiet ache Buck left behind lull him into uneasy sleep.

Eddie wakes with a start.

It’s too bright. His neck aches. His shirt’s wrinkled and clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He’s still on the couch. The blanket had slipped halfway off sometime in the night, and his phone is buzzing against his chest, where he must’ve been clutching it like a lifeline in his sleep.

He blinks blearily at the screen. 7:20 a.m. One of the five alarms he’d set is still going off, vibrating steadily in his hand. 

He turns it off, and catches the text waiting on the lockscreen. Sent at 6:57am. 

dw omw to pepa’s

Eddie stares at it for a second, brain sluggish, heart slow to catch up. Right. Buck had said he’d pick up Chris.

Because he wanted to. Because it was the one thing he’d insisted on, even with that weird tension still hanging between them like smoke.

He shuts off the remaining alarms and lets the phone drop onto the cushion beside him. He’s still tired. Bone-deep, dream-heavy tired. His eyelids are already sinking closed again before he can remind himself to move.

Just five more minutes, he tells himself. He’ll call and check in. Get up. Make breakfast. Something.

He’s asleep again in seconds.

The next time he wakes, the light outside the window is too bright to ignore. The house is quiet. Too quiet.

Eddie frowns, checks his phone. 11:54 a.m.

What the hell?

Chris isn’t home. There’s no sound of video games or chatter or feet padding into the kitchen. No Buck, either. Not even a text since the one from earlier.

Eddie sits up slowly, every muscle stiff and aching like he’s slept too hard in the wrong position. His mouth tastes stale. His head is heavy. His heart, though — that kicks up, fast and uneasy.

He calls Buck.

It rings. And rings. Goes to voicemail.

His chest tightens. He tries again. Same thing.

A flicker of anxiety curls hot beneath his ribs. Maybe they’re just out. Maybe Chris wanted pancakes, or to go to the beach, or to look at turtles in the pet store again. Maybe—

He calls Pepa.

She picks up on the second ring. “Eddie,” she says, and her voice is urgent.

His stomach drops. “What happened?”

“Nothing bad—no one’s hurt,” she says quickly, a rush of reassurance. “But come here. Now. Just—trust me.”

She hangs up before he can press further.

And now he’s fully awake, all fog burned off by adrenaline. He doesn’t change. Doesn’t think. Just grabs his keys and is out the door in seconds.

The streets blur past. It takes him under ten minutes to reach Pepa’s, and that’s with him flooring it the whole way. His heart’s pounding by the time he pulls up, nerves sparking under his skin.

He’s halfway to the door when it opens.

Chris is there, practically vibrating with excitement, and then he throws himself forward — arms flung wide, smile so bright it could knock the wind out of him. “Happy Father’s Day!!”

Eddie catches him on instinct, stumbling back a step with the force of it. “What—?”

Before he can even finish, two voices ring out from inside the house.

“Happy Father’s Day, Eddie!”

Eddie looks up. And freezes.

Pepa’s living room has been transformed.

A handmade banner stretches across the back wall: BEST DAD EVER in big, uneven block letters, each one a different color. Balloons float near the ceiling, anchored to chairs and corners of furniture. The coffee table holds a spread of breakfast treats — cupcakes, cookies, fruit, and what looks suspiciously like Buck’s slightly overbaked but clearly heartfelt attempt at a quiche.

And Buck is there. 

Standing beside Pepa, pom-pom in one hand, smile on his face. His eyes are on Eddie, watchful, soft, a little unreadable. And maybe Eddie’s imagining it, but there’s a flicker of sadness there too. Leftovers from last night. 

And then it’s gone, smoothed over with warmth.  

Eddie swallows.

“I—what—” He glances at Chris, then back at the room, as if he’s stepped into a dream. And then, like an idiot: “What is this?”

Chris beams up at him, proud and practically bouncing. “It’s Father’s Day, Dad.”

“I didn’t—I forgot,” Eddie says faintly. His throat’s suddenly dry.

“Well, we didn’t,”  Buck says, stepping forward to ruffle Chris’s hair — Chris makes a face, swatting at his hand — but Buck just grins, easy and bright. Like nothing’s wrong. “And don’t worry, you were supposed to sleep in.”

“Yeah, I—I did,” Eddie admits, a little dazed.

“You needed it,” Pepa chimes in kindly. “You’ve been stretched thin lately.”

Chris tugs at his hand, leading him further inside. “Come on, come on! We’ve got stuff for you!”

Eddie lets himself be pulled, his hand tightening around Chris’s without thinking.

But his gaze flickers, just once, back to Buck who’s already turned away, heading toward the kitchen with a quiet sort of cheer.

Chris leads him to the coffee table, where there are two cards laid out — one with Chris’s careful handwriting and stickers, the other in Buck’s, short and neat. Beside them sits a box wrapped in bright blue paper, taped in a way that’s clearly been redone more than once.

Eddie shoots them both a confused glance before reaching for it. The paper rustles as he pulls it apart, and— 

His breath catches.

Inside is a leather jacket. Not just any jacket, but the one he’d admired weeks ago, in passing, during a quiet moment in traffic. He’d barely said anything, just let his gaze linger on the display as they drove by. He hadn’t thought anyone had noticed.

“How—?” he starts, voice already hoarse.

“I dunno,” Chris says proudly, and beams at Buck. “But Buck knew.”

Buck ducks his head, eyes flicking up shyly. There’s a softness around his mouth, a blush coloring his cheeks. “I mean—it looked like something you’d wear. And your old one’s…” He shrugs. “Hanging on by a thread. Literally.”

Eddie can’t speak. His fingers are still curled around the soft leather, and his vision is starting to blur.

“And we’ve been planning this all week! ” Chris adds cheerfully. “Buck kept texting me during school, like, operation secret Father’s Day is a go, and code name: sleepyhead. ”

“Chris,” Buck says, clearly embarrassed. “You weren’t supposed to tell him the code names.”

Chris shrugs, and Eddie huffs out a laugh that breaks halfway through. He has to blink rapidly to clear his eyes.

“I don’t—” Eddie swallows hard. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s okay,” Buck says, gentler now, stepping in closer. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“Just say you like it," Chris offers.

Eddie huffs a laugh, shaky. “I love it.”

Chris hugs him again, tight. “You’re the best dad in the whole world.”

He doesn’t sob. Doesn’t fall apart in that big, cinematic way. But the tears come anyway — quiet and unrelenting. They spill over without warning, the damn traitors. 

He wipes at them, embarrassed, but they just keep coming.

“Hey, hey,” Buck says softly, brushing a hand over his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to cry. You deserve today.”

Eddie nods, jaw tight, breath catching in his chest. He glances down at Chris again—his son, who’s been scheming with Buck all week to make him feel loved—who’s looking up at him with that wide, sunshine smile that always makes everything make sense. And then over at Buck, who’s been here the whole time, steady and thoughtful and so good, and something breaks open in him.

Because Eddie’s been a class-A idiot. He’s spent the past few days worrying, spinning stories in his head, accusing, resenting, and snapping at Buck for no reason other than the fact that Eddie was scared. Because Eddie convinced himself Buck was slipping away.

But all that time, Buck had been here, with Eddie’s son, quietly building this moment. Planning joy while Eddie nursed jealousy.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie chokes out, voice wrecked. “I don’t—I didn’t deserve this.”

“Yes, you do,” Buck says instantly, without hesitation, and with that unwavering belief of worth he always puts aside for Eddie. “Of course you do.”

Eddie can’t speak. So instead, he pulls them both in, one arm around each of them, tucking them against his chest like if he holds them tight enough, he’ll never have to let them go.

“Thank you,” Eddie says, voice thick, heart overflowing with love love love. “Thank you.”

They eat together after that, the four of them crowded around the small dining table with mismatched chairs and too many overlapping conversations. Chris is relaying every detail of the past week’s planning like it’s a mission report. Buck listens with a soft smile, gently correcting his exaggerations, nudging another piece of fruit onto Chris’ plate when he isn’t looking. 

Eddie tries to keep up, but he keeps getting caught on the edges of it. The way Buck looks at Chris, the way Chris looks at Buck, the way they both look at him.

Eventually, Buck and Chris disappear outside, saying something about testing the camera timer and a time-sensitive photoshoot involving Eddie's new jacket. 

Eddie sinks into the couch, muscles loosening for the first time all day. He doesn’t even realize Pepa’s beside him until she passes him a cupcake with a: “What's wrong?”

Eddie’s throat tightens. “I don’t—” He shakes his head. “I didn’t know they were planning this.”

"I didn't know either," Pepa says. "Not fully anyway." 

Through the window, Eddie can see them — Chris swimming in the jacket’s sleeves, Buck crouched beside him, fixing the collar, the two of them lit up with laughter.

“He texted me fifteen times between midnight and seven a.m.,” she continues, her voice soft. “Apologies at first. Then updates. Said he was sorry for the last-minute change. Apparently they were banking on you sleeping in so they could set everything up at your place. But, well—Christopher was here.”

Eddie looks down at his hands. Then, very quietly, he says, “I thought I was losing him.”

Pepa doesn’t say anything. Just lets him speak.

“I thought—” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, trying to find the right words. “I thought he was pulling away. I kept making it worse, picking at him, snapping. I couldn’t stop. I thought maybe he’d found someone else. That he didn’t want to be here anymore. With me. With us.”

He doesn’t look at her. Not when the shame is curling hot in his chest, not when it’s so bright he can feel it all the way in his face.

“But he was right here,” he whispers. “Doing all this. Texting with Chris. Planning a day just to make me feel loved. And I was sitting in that house convincing myself he was already gone.”

Pepa hums, low and thoughtful. “And why do you think you did that?”

Eddie lets out a small, bitter laugh. “Because I’m stupid?”

“No,” she says, simple and steady. “Because you care.”

He looks away quickly, swallows hard.

“I think I love him,” he says. It falls out before he can second-guess it. His voice trembles under the weight of it. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. It feels terrifying. It feels right. And it's out, and he doesn't want to take it back in. 

“I don’t know when it happened,” he continues. “Maybe it’s always been happening. But I see him now and I think— this is it. This is what I want. And I almost ruined it because I was too afraid to ask if I could have it.”

He finally looks over at her. “Do you think I’ve already lost him?”

Pepa studies him for a long moment.

Then she shakes her head. “No, Eddito. Not even close.”

Eddie’s eyes sting.

“He doesn’t—Buck doesn’t even know, ” Eddie says. “Or if he does, he doesn’t want to.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You really think the man who’s been texting your son all week, baking you quiche at dawn, and running around setting up Father’s Day surprises doesn’t want to?”

Eddie looks out the window again. Buck is crouched beside Chris in the backyard. They’re both laughing about something. Buck’s got his camera out, and Chris is gesturing wildly with his arms. The leather jacket — Eddie’s jacket — is hanging off Chris’s shoulders, but he’s beaming like it makes him invincible. Buck’s watching him with so much fondness, it hurts to look at.

“I think he’s scared, too,” she adds gently. “I think you both are. But I also think you’ve got time. And that boy out there taking photos of your son? He’s still here.”

Eddie swallows hard and nods.

“He’s my best friend,” Eddie says, quietly.

She pats his knee, stands. “Eat your cupcake. Go take some pictures with your family. Tell him when you’re ready.”

Eddie watches Pepa head back inside, leaving him alone with the quiet hum of a summer afternoon and a cupcake that he suddenly has no appetite for. He stares at the little swirl of frosting, heart thick in his chest, then sets it down, moving towards the back door.

The moment the sunlight hits him, he squints.

Buck is sitting on the edge of the patio, one knee bent, one stretched out, backlit like a photograph. Chris is beside him, cross-legged with chalk all over his fingers, mid-story, mid-laugh. Buck’s head is tilted toward him, grinning like it’s instinct, as if loving Eddie’s son is second nature.

Eddie’s breath catches in his throat.

He watches them for a second, drinking it in. The way Chris rests so easily against Buck’s side. The way Buck doesn’t even think before draping an arm around his shoulder. They look like a family.

They are a family.

And Eddie almost let it slip through his fingers.

Chris notices him first. “Dad!” he beams. “Did you see our mural?”

Eddie huffs a laugh and ruffles Chris’s curls. “I did see it. Looks great.”

Chris rests his head briefly against Eddie’s leg before Eddie gently nudges him. “Hey, bud. Can I talk to Buck for a sec?”

Chris looks between them, curious but not suspicious. “Okay,” he says, then stands with a little help and starts heading back toward the house.

When they’re alone, the natural ease they’d cultivated between them over the years dips a little.

“What’s up?” Buck asks. He’s not smiling anymore. 

Eddie sits down beside him, legs stretched out, facing the same direction so he doesn’t have to look directly at him just yet.

“I just,” he starts, then stops. “I wanted to say sorry.”

Buck glances at his profile, quiet, and looks away immediately.

“For the past week,” Eddie continues, eyes ahead. “For snapping at you on shift yesterday. For last night. For… all of it. I didn’t mean to push you away.”

Still nothing from Buck, but Eddie hears the change in his breath.

“I was just. God, I was scared, Buck.”

That gets him. Buck turns slightly, brow furrowed. “Scared?”

“I thought I was losing you.”

Buck blinks, startled. “Eddie—”

“I know. It sounds ridiculous,” he rushes to say. “But I kept overthinking things. Seeing signs that weren’t there. You just kept texting someone—I mean, I know it's Chris now, but when I didn't, I thought... that maybe you were replacing us. That we wouldn't have you anymore." 

“You’ll always have me, Eddie,” Buck says. “That’s not even a question. You—you’re it for me. You and Chris. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Something loosens in Eddie’s chest, like a knot he hadn’t realized was strangling him.

“I know that now,” Eddie says, voice hoarse.“You were being there for him. Helping him plan something for me. And I—God, I’ve been such an idiot. The whole time, you were just doing what you always do. Loving us. And I twisted that into something ugly because I was jealous. Jealous of my own son. Jesus.”

Buck reaches out, fingers brushing his wrist. “You’re not an idiot. You were scared. That’s allowed.”

“I missed you so much,” Eddie admits. He’s never been brave enough to, before. “Even when you were right there. I missed us.”

Buck ducks his head, voice gentle. “I’m sorry, Eddie. I should’ve picked up on it. And I know it’s only been a day, but—” He huffs a quiet laugh. “I missed you, too.”

Eddie leans in, their shoulders just barely brushing. He wants to hold onto this, hold onto Buck, keep him this close forever. 

For a moment, everything feels like it might finally, finally be okay. But then, the nagging at his chest starts, spreading out, out, out right up until it reaches Eddie’s throat. 

“I just… I thought you’d be happy,” Eddie says, the words out before he can even stop them. “About Point Dume.”

The change in Buck is instant. He pulls back just enough that Eddie feels the loss like a draft of cold air.

“Oh,” Buck says, voice suddenly flat. 

Eddie frowns. “What—what was that?”

“Nothing.”

“No, come on. Buck.” Eddie turns toward him, eyebrows drawn in, heart picking up speed. “See? This is what I mean. I thought you’d be excited. Even Hen said—”

"Excited?" Buck echoes, a growing hurt laced with disbelief. "Eddie—I can’t…You need to—” He shakes his head, eyes pinched shut. “You have to stop.” 

Eddie flinches. "Buck, what are you talking about?"

Buck’s pulled away too far from him now, sitting up straighter like he’s bracing for impact. 

"Do you even hear yourself, Eddie?” he demands, voice rising just so. “You’re saying all these things—you don’t want to lose me, you missed me, you— You make it sound like I matter."

“What?” Eddie blurts, completely thrown. “Of course, you matter—”

Buck huffs out a disbelieving laugh that stops Eddie right in his tracks. It’s sharp and bitter and it sounds like it hurts his throat. “You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you? You’re being mean. You’re being cruel and you don’t even realize it.”

Eddie stares at him, shaken. “Buck—no. I’m not—”

“You forgot my birthday,” Buck says, voice cracking. “Okay? That sucked. But I could’ve gotten over it. But I know you remembered Point Dume. And you don’t get to act like you’re scared of losing me, like I’m this big part of your life, and then take someone else there.”

Eddie’s mouth opens, but Buck’s not done.

“You don’t get to make me feel like—like I matter to you and then just toss this in my face like I’m supposed to be okay with it.”

“Buck, wait—” Eddie tries again, panicked now, but Buck barrels on.

“I thought we were us,” he says, voice trembling, eyes bright. “Me, you, and Chris. I thought—maybe it wasn’t labeled or said out loud, but I thought we all knew what this was. That it meant something. ”

“It does, ” Eddie says immediately, desperate to get a word in where he can.

“Then what the hell else was I supposed to think?” Buck shoots back. “You’re standing in your kitchen, making plans for Point Dume with someone else. You’re smiling, laughing, calling it a perfect day, and I’m just standing there like an idiot thinking, that was supposed to be us. ”

Eddie’s heart is hammering. His hands feel numb. The world has narrowed to Buck — his shaking shoulders, the wreck in his voice, the pain written all over his face.

“It is you,” Eddie says, before Buck can spiral any further. “It’s always been you.”

Buck blinks, still caught in the storm.

“That night,” Eddie continues, fast now, desperate. “In the kitchen—I wasn’t planning a date. I wasn’t planning a trip with someone else. I was planning your birthday. ”

Buck goes still. 

“What?” he breathes.

“I didn’t forget,” Eddie says. “How could I forget? It’s you, Buck. I just—I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted to do something right for once. And I screwed it all up.”

Buck stares at him, eyes wide, stunned into silence.

“I thought you figured it out,” Eddie rushes on. “You heard me say Point Dume, and you left looking like I’d—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I thought you were upset I’d ruined the surprise.”

Buck lets out a brittle laugh. It’s not amused—it’s wrecked.

“Ruined the surprise?” he repeats, almost whispering. “Eddie, I thought you were planning Point Dume with someone else. On my birthday. That’s what ruined me.”

“I wasn’t! ” Eddie says quickly, chest aching. “Jesus, Buck. I’ve been planning this for you. For days. Hen and I came up with it together. I wanted it to be something you’d remember. I didn’t tell you because—I didn’t want to mess it up.”

Buck’s expression wavers, somewhere between disbelief and hope, but the hurt hasn’t let go of him yet. “Then why did you look so guilty?”

“Because you caught me,” Eddie says. “You walked in while I was talking to Hen and Karen. I panicked. You looked so thrown and I thought— shit, he knows. I thought you’d figured it out.”

“But you didn’t say anything,” Buck says, voice cracking. “If you thought I knew, you could’ve—I don’t know— winked or something. You didn’t even try. You just… shut down. You pulled away. You made it worse.”

Eddie winces, voice rising despite himself. “Because I got scared!”

“You looked so hurt, Buck,” he continues, “and I didn’t know how to fix it. I thought maybe you didn’t want it. That maybe you were making plans with—whoever you’d been texting. That maybe you didn’t even want to spend your birthday with us anymore.”

Buck blinks, startled. “Why would I ever not want to spend it with you and Chris?”

“Because I’ve been an asshole?" Eddie offers. "Because I’ve been jealous and picking fights and accusing you of stuff that wasn’t even real. And I couldn’t say what I really wanted to, because saying it out loud meant admitting it meant something.”

Buck’s voice softens to something near a whisper. “What did it mean?”

“That I love you,” he says. He’s already said it once, and now it’s easy to say it again. “I’m so in love with you.”

Eddie’s hands are shaking, and he’s not sure when Buck took hold of them, but he’s holding on like he’s afraid Eddie might vanish.

“And it’s not new,” Eddie goes on, voice hoarse. “It’s not some big sudden thing. It’s been there. Pepa knew too. I just—I was scared. Of saying it. Of ruining it. But instead, I made you think I didn’t care, and that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

For a long moment, Buck doesn’t move or speak.

Then, finally, he says, “I thought you were choosing someone else.”

“I wasn’t,” Eddie promises. “I never was. Never will.”

Buck swallows hard. His eyes are glassy again, but this time, he doesn’t pull away. He squeezes Eddie’s hand instead. 

“You idiot,” he says, soft and wrecked. “I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eddie lets out a shaky laugh. “I said it first though.” 

“Yeeeah— but I meant it more,” Buck shrugs. 

Eddie nudges him lightly with his shoulder. “Not possible.”

Buck beams, sunshine in his eyes, and doesn’t argue. He shifts, leaning his head on Eddie’s shoulder.  They sit like that for a moment—breathing and existing in the quiet aftermath. 

Then Eddie shifts, just slightly, “I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything.”

Buck lifts his head just enough to glance at him, brow furrowed. “My birthday’s in two weeks.”

“I meant for today,” Eddie clarifies, his voice quiet but certain.

Buck’s brows draw tighter, confused, and Eddie’s heart is suddenly thudding hard in his chest—like it always does when he lets himself be vulnerable, when he peels back a layer too deep. But he doesn’t stop.

“You know he sees you as his dad, right?”

Buck stills.

Eddie watches the way the words land, the way they settle in Buck’s bones. “You’re his father, too, Buck,” he says. “In every way that counts.”

It costs something to say it out loud. Not because it’s difficult—but because it’s so painfully true. Because it’s been true for a long time now, and Eddie doesn’t know why it took him this long to give it shape.

Buck blinks, stunned. His eyes are wide and glassy, like he’s not sure he heard right, like maybe if he blinks again it’ll all disappear. He doesn’t speak.

“I should’ve told you that earlier,” Eddie adds, barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve made sure you knew.”

And God, he means it. He’s thinking of all the mornings Buck made breakfast for Chris before school. The way Chris lights up when Buck walks into a room. The way Buck never once needed to be asked—he just showed up, again and again, like being a family was the most natural thing in the world.

Buck’s voice finally breaks through, rough around the edges. “You just did.”

Then he leans in again, forehead pressing gently to Eddie’s temple—and Eddie lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He closes his eyes, lets the warmth settle in his chest, and lets himself believe—finally, fully—that he didn’t mess it up beyond repair.

“Happy Father’s Day, Buck,” he murmurs.

Buck huffs a quiet, wrecked laugh. It’s soft and disbelieving, like the sound of hope when you’re not used to having it.

“Yeah,” he says, voice full. “Right back at you.”