Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Fog rolled off the street and pooled in the open bays of Station 118, softening the edges of everything - trucks, hoses, even the chipped white paint on the walls. Buck stood just inside the threshold, gear bag hanging off one shoulder. The air smelled like motor oil, dust and the faint bitterness of last night’s burnt coffee.

He’d been back for a month. 

Sometimes he still woke up expecting hospital white. The steady beep of monitors. The weight of sheets tucked too tight around his legs. Instead, he woke to the familiar creak of the bunkroom ceiling fan and the distant rumble of early traffic outside the station. For a split second each morning, he forgot what had happened. 

Then he remembered the lightning.

The way the sky had cracked open. The way the world had gone white. 

He remembered the quiet after.

He’d asked once - casual, like it didn’t matter - how long his heart had stopped. Chim had told him. Three minutes. Said it with a grin, like it was impressive. Like Buck had won something. 

Three minutes felt like more than a pause. It felt like an ending.

Sometimes he wondered if he had actually died that day and everything after was just… something else. A replay. A simulation. A kindness his brain had built so he wouldn’t notice the dark. 

He shifted the gear bag higher on his shoulder and stepped fully inside the station. 

It had been long enough, since his return, for the station to find its rhythm again, for Bobby to stop glancing over his shoulder every time Buck climbed a ladder. Long enough for the jokes to come back, but not long enough for him to feel like he belonged inside them.

Hen spotted him first. “Morning Buck,” she called, pen tucked behind her ear and clipboard in hand.

“Hey, Hen.”
“Inspection day again.” She grimaced good naturedly. “Bobby’s still traumatised by Chim’s attempt at Cajun shrimp.”
Buck managed a laugh. “Guess it’s safer to check the alarms than the spice cabinet.”

He crouched beside Ladder 118, running his palm over the cool metal. Every bolt was exactly where it should be. He used to love that - the way this world made sense. Machines didn’t lie. You maintained them, and they worked. People weren’t like that.

He flexed his fingers. For a moment, they didn’t feel like his. 

There was a faint scar at the base of his wrist where an IV line had bruised deep. The skin there looked ordinary now. Like nothing catastrophic had ever threaded through it. 

His chest still ached sometimes - a phantom memory of paddles and pressure. He pressed his palm flat over his sternum, half expected to feel something foreign beneath the bone. A seam. A crack.

The rhythm inside him was steady. Strong.

It didn’t feel earned. 

Behind him the radio hissed softly, dispatch chatter a constant heartbeat in the background. The day felt ordinary, which should have been comforting. Instead, it pressed against him like static. 

Everything looked sharp, but dulled at the edges, like he was seeing the world through glass that hadn’t been cleaned properly. He could touch things. Speak. Move.

But sometimes it felt like the real him was half a second behind, watching his body catch up.

The tones dropped just after ten.
“Structure fire, Silver Lake,” the dispatcher announced, voice crackling through the overhead speaker. 

Buck was already moving, boots thudding across concrete. He grabbed his helmet, met Eddie’s eyes for half a second - no words needed - and climbed into the rig. 

Movement helped.

There was no room for doubt when the tones dropped. No space for existential spirals when someone needed saving. The job filled him up with urgency, sealed over the cracks with adrenaline. 

For a few minutes at a time, he could forget that something inside him felt misaligned. 

The siren wailed to life, slicing through traffic as the truck surged onto the main road. Los Angeles streamed past in flashes of colour and glass. Buck watched reflections dance across Eddie’s visor, felt the vibration through the seat, the rush of focus tightening everything inside him until only the job existed. 

When they arrived, smoke pumped from the roof of the house. Bobby’s orders came fast: “Eddie, Buck - primary search. Hen, Chim - attack line on the kitchen."

Buck hit the porch first, mask sealed, axe ready. The front door was already half gone to flames. Heat slammed into him, the familiar wall of sound and colour that always felt like standing inside a heartbeat. 

They moved in tandem - Eddie sweeping left, Buck right. Each room cleared in seconds until the faint cry cut through the roar. 

“Upstairs!” someone shouted outside and Buck didn’t hesitate. He took the stairs two at a time, feeling the structure shudder beneath his weight. 

The heat surged around him and for a fractured second the roar of the fire twisted into thunder. 

White light flashed behind his eyes. 

His boot missed the next step. 

He caught himself on the railing before he fell, heart slamming hard enough to rattle his ribs. The world snapped back into place - flames, smoke, Eddie’s voice somewhere below.

Not thunder. Not rain.

Just fire.

He kept moving.

A boy, maybe eight, was curled under a desk, arms over his head. Buck dropped to his knees. “Hey buddy. You’re okay. We’re getting out of here.”

The kid’s eyes were huge, pupils blown wide with fear. Buck reached out, pulled him close, wrapped him in the turnout jacket and ran. 

The kid’s small hands clutched at him with desperate strength. Alive. Terrified. Real.

Buck held on tighter than necessary.

If he was a ghost - if this was all some strange afterlife trick - then at least he could still carry someone out of the flame.

At least he could still matter. 

Cool air slapped his face. The kid coughed once, then started sobbing - loud, alive. Bobby appeared at his shoulder. “Nice work, Buckley.”

Buck nodded, breath coming hard through the mask. The praise should have landed somewhere deep, but it only skimmed the surface. He stood still long enough for his heartbeat to settle, watching the mother collapse around her child. Relief, gratitude, tears.

He told himself to feel proud. Instead, he just felt empty. 

The mother’s hands shook as she thanked him. Over and over. Her voice cracked on every word. Buck nodded at the right times. Said the right reassurances. But he watched himself do it like it was someone else's body speaking.

Hero.

Second chance.

Miracle.

The words floated around him and failed to stick.

The kid had almost died. 

Buck had.

The difference felt arbitrary.  

By the time they rolled back to the station, the adrenaline had burned away. Buck showered fast, scalding water turning grey as it washed soot down the drain. No matter how hard he scrubbed, the smell of smoke stayed. 

He braced both hands against the tile wall and let the water pour over his head.

In the hospital, the nurses had washed him when he couldn’t move. He’d come back to himself in pieces - flashes of sound, shapes, the unbearable weight of being tethered to machines. 

He remembered trying to lift his hand and finding it didn’t respond.

Now it did.

Now everything responded. 

So why did he feel like he was still stuck somewhere in between?
He turned the water hotter, almost punishing.

Still here, he told himself.

Still here. 

In the kitchen, Hen was stirring a pot while Chim hovered behind her with theatrical exasperation. “You’re murdering the chilli," he complained.

“You burned garlic again, so you don’t get a vote.”

Bobby entered mid argument, clipboard tucked under his arm. “Hen, paperwork. Chim, stop harassing my cook. Buck, Eddie - check trauma bags before inspection.”
“Yes, Cap,” Buck said automatically. 

He and Eddie walked out to the rig, sun glare bouncing off chrome. They worked in comfortable silence: count the gauze, check the saline, swap expired vials. 

After a while Eddie asked, “You doing okay?”
Buck didn’t look up. “Yeah. Why?”
“You’ve been quiet."
He shrugged. “Just tired.”
Eddie watched him for a moment longed, then said, “You pulled that kid out clean today. Nice save.”
“Team effort.”
“Still.” Eddie smiled, small but sincere.
Buck nodded, throat tight. 

Before, praise had filled the hollow places inside him. Proved he was useful. Necessary.

Now it just highlighted the gap.

If he’d really died - if that lightning had decided differently - Eddie would still be standing here. Hen would still be stirring chili. Bobby would still be leading the 118.

The world would have kept turning.

Someone else could have carried that kid out. 

The thought hollowed him out further. 

By noon, the kitchen smelled amazing. Chim insisted on redemption chili, claiming scientific precision this time. The table was crowded, laughter echoing off the floor. 

Hen told a story about a neighbourhood kid trying to sell her “custom oxygen” in mason jars. Bobby nearly spit his drink. Eddie rolled his eyes so hard it made Chim snort. Buck smiled when they looked at him, laughed when the rhythm required it. 

The noise was warm, familiar, almost musical. He wanted to lean into it, but part of him hovered outside the circle, watching instead of belonging. He studied them - the tiny gestures that made them who they were.

Hen’s expressive eyebrows, Bobby’s careful listening, Chim’s exaggerated hand gestures, Eddie’s absent minded tapping of his fork. He loved them, all of them, but from somewhere that felt a few feet too far away. 

Hen caught him staring. “What, you judging my chili too?”
Buck blinked. “Tastes good to me.”
“See?” Chim said triumphantly. “Validation!”
Hen groaned. “He’s being polite.”

Buck laughed again, softer this time. The sound fooled them, mostly. When he looked down, his spoon trembled. He pressed it flat against the table until it stopped. 

For a terrifying second he imagined letting it keep shaking. 

Letting them see it.

Letting the mask slip.

But then they would look at him the way they had in the hospital - careful. Fragile. Like he might disappear if they blinked too hard. 

He couldn’t stand that look again. 

So he swallowed it down and asked Chim for the hot sauce. 

After lunch the energy drained from the room, leaving the easy quiet of a station between calls. Hen typed reports at the kitchen counter; Eddie polished hand tools out by the truck. Bobby’s office door was half closed, radio murmuring inside. 

Buck restocked the ambulance alone. The repetitive order of it calmed him - everything had a place. Gauze in rows, tape lined up edge to edge, gloves sorted by size. From the kitchen came faint voices, unintentional:
Chim - low, concerned. “He’s getting there.”
Hen’s reply. “He’s quieter though.”
A pause. Eddie’s voice, steady. “Give him time.”

Bucks hands froze. The sterile crinkle of plastic sounded suddenly too loud. Time. That was the prescription everyone kept giving him. As if the clock could fix what had broken inside of him. 

He’d had time.

Time in a hospital bed. Time staring at the ceiling at three in the morning, listening to his own heartbeat and wondering why it was still going.

Time hadn’t answered the question that kept circling him like smoke: Why me?

Why did the lightning miss just enough to bring him back, when other people never got that choice?
The rig didn’t answer.

It just reflected him back - solid. Breathing. Present.

He didn’t feel like any of those things. 

By sunset the city outside the bays had turned gold and dusty. Dinner was leftovers, eaten standing around the counter. Hen teased Bobby about his crossword addiction; Chim argued about movie rankings. Eddie leaned against the sink, watching them all with quiet affection. Buck joined in where he could, but the words came slower, heavier. His smiles felt rehearsed. 

He tracked the rhythm of the conversation like it was a drill - wait for the pause, insert a joke, nod at the right punchline.

There had been a time when he was the rhythm. Loud, bright, impossible to ignore. 

Now he felt like an understudy reading from cue cards. 

For a split second he wondered if they could tell. If they could see the half second delay between when something happened and when he reacted to it. 

Hen caught his gaze again. “You good?”
“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “Just thinking about that kid. Lucky break.”
She studied him a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Lucky.”

Lucky.

The word snagged in his chest.

He’d heard it a lot lately. Lucky the bolt hadn’t stopped his heart for good. Lucky the damage hadn’t been worse. Lucky to be back.

He wasn’t sure it was luck.

It felt more like a clerical error.

The conversation moved on, and he let it. When Bobby finally dismissed them, Buck volunteered to clean up. The others drifted toward the bunkroom, voices fading into the corridor. Hen’s laugh. Eddie’s soft good nights. Silence settled.

The station always sounded different at night. The hum of electricity in the walls. The distant groan of pipes shifting. The faint rattle of a truck cooling in the bay.

He used to find it comforting - proof that the building was alive around them.

Tonight it sounded hollow. 

Buck wiped the counter, stacked the bowls, shut off the lights. The fridge hummed behind him. He closed his eyes and let the hum wash over him.

In the hospital, there had always been a hum too. Machines breathing for him. Monitoring him. Measuring him. 

He’d floated in and out of awareness to that sound. Sometimes he couldn;t tell if his chest was rising on its own or because something else was making it happen.

He pressed a hand lightly to his sternum again, subtle this time.

Still his heartbeat.

Still steady.

Still here.

He wasn’t sure why that didn’t comfort him.

It had been a good shift by every measure - fast response, no injuries, teamwork solid. He should have felt proud, instead, he felt like he’d spent the whole day pretending to be himself. “Good shift,” he whispered.

He tried to list the evidence.

Child rescued.

Crew safe.

No civilian fatalities.

By every metric he’d ever used to measure himself, the day had been a success.

So why did it feel like he’d barely been present for it?

The city looked washed out through the clinic windows - that pale, greyish sun that made everything feel too quiet. Buck sat in the small waiting room, fingers tracing the seam of his jeans, listening to the soft buzz of fluorescent lights. That faint scene of antiseptic hung in the air, sharp and clean in a way that reminded him of the hospital.

He didn’t like that memory.

Hospitals meant stillness.

Stillness meant thinking.

And thinking meant replating the moment everything had gone white - the crack of thunder, the violent snap of light, the sudden absence of sensation.

He remembered the feeling of falling without moving. 

Then nothing.

The nothing scared him more than the strike itself. 

When the door opened, Dr. Copeland smiled the same careful smile she always did - calm practised warmth that didn’t demand anything. “Evan,” she said. “Come on in.”

He stood, smoothed a wrinkle from his shirt and followed her into the office. The walls were a soft cream colour, lined with shelves of books that looked unread. A single plant in the corner dropped under the air conditioner. 

“Same chair as always?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He sat down, leaning back enough to look casual but not so far that it seemed defensive. The trick of therapy was looking like you wanted to be there even when you didn’t.

He’d gotten good at it.

Open posture. Mild eye contact. The right amount of self deprecating humour.

Enough vulnerability to seem honest. Not enough to make anyone nervous. 

He didn’t want to be someone people handled carefully. 

She settled opposite him, notebook balanced on her knee. “How have you been since our last session?”
“I’m good.”
A pause. 

“Good?” she repeated gently.
He nodded. “Yeah. Things are fine. I’m back at work. Everyone’s been…good.”
"That's good to hear.” She flipped her pen in her fingers, not writing yet. “How has it been, being back at work?”
He hesitated. “Normal.”
“Normal can mean a lot of things.”
He shrugged. “We had a fire yesterday. Kid was trapped upstairs. Got him out. No casualties.”
“That must have felt rewarding.”

Rewarding implied something settled afterward. A sense of completion.

What he’d felt instead was a strange lag - like th emotional response was buffering and never quite loading.

He’d watched the mother cry and tried to summon the familiar rush of relief.

It hadn’t come. 

“It’s what we do,” he said quickly, as if the phrase itself could end the line of questioning. “That’s the job.”

If he kept it procedural, it stayed manageable.

Rescue. Extract. Clear.

No room in that language for existential dread.

No space for the question that had started creeping in during quiet moments: If I died once already, what exactly am I now?

She hummed softly, the sound of thought. “And how did you feel afterward?”
He blinked at the ceiling for a second too long. “Fine.”

Her eyes softened. “Evan, when you say ‘fine,’ what does that mean for you right now?”
He forced a small smile. “It means fine. Not bad, not good. Just…fine.”
“You’ve used that word a lot lately.”
“It’s a versatile word.”

That earned a faint smile from her too - not humour exactly, but acknowledgement. “You mentioned you were tired last session. Has that improved?”
“I think so.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Just adjusting, you know? Being struck by lighting, the time off - it messed with my rhythm. I'm getting it back.”
She nodded slowly, still not writing. “Rhythm can be comforting. What does it feel like when you lose it?”

He hesitated. The question landed somewhere deep and cold. “Like noise,” he said finally. 

Sometimes it felt like standing behind soundproof glass.

He could see everyone moving, talking, living - but there was a delay, like the audio didn’t quite sync with the picture.

And he was never fully certain which side of the glass he was on.

“Everything’s too much or not enough. Loud or quiet. People talking, radios, calls - something I can’t tell if I’m in it or just watching it happen.” That was more honesty than he intended. His throat tightened. He looked down at his hands. 

Dr. Copeland’s voice stayed calm. “And when you’re watching it happen, what do you feel?”
He let out a small laugh that didn’t sound right. “Detached. I guess. Like I’m running on autopilot.”
“Does that worry you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s not new.”
“Not new?”

He hesitated again, then shrugged. “It’s happened before. After big stuff. It goes away.”

“Did it go away last time?”

Last time had been after the tsunami. After the lawsuit. After the shooting.

Every time something big cracked through his life, there was almost this period where he drifted.

But this felt different.

This time the crack had gone through him.

He looked at her finally. “Eventually.”

The silence stretched. He shifted in the chair, glanced toward the clock above her desk. Fourty minutes left. He wished he hadn’t looked. Now he could feel every tick. 

Time had stretched in the coma too - except he hadn’t been conscious to feel it.
Three minutes.

People kept saying it like it was miraculous.

He kept thinking about how long it would have taken for everyone to accept it if he hadn’t come back.

How long before the station adjusted.

Found a new normal.

Dr. Copeland followed his gaze. “You seem distracted.”
“I just - didn’t sleep much after shift.”
“Nightmares?”
He shook his head. “Just…awake.”

When he closed his eyes, there was sometimes a flash - not even an image, just brightness. A phantom echo of lightning behind his eyelids.

It made sleep feel dangerous. 

Like if he let himself drift too far again, he might not claw his way back. 

She jotted something down this time, quiet pen scratches. “Do you talk to anyone when you can’t sleep?”

“No. I don’t want to bother people.”

“Would they see it that way?”
He frowned. “Probably not. But it feels that way.”

She nodded, as though that made perfect sense. “What about Eddie? You mentioned before that you two are close.”
Buck’s chest tightened a little. “Yeah. He’s - he’s been great.”
“Do you talk to him about how you’re feeling?”
“Sometimes.”

“What do you tell him?”
“That I’m fine.”

He could still see Eddie’s face in the hospital. Pale. Stripped bare in a way Buck had never seen before.

Fear, unfiltered.

Buck couldn’t stand the idea of putting that look back on him.

Better to be fine.

She smiled gently. “There’s that word again.”

He huffed out a breath, half amusement, half defense. “I don’t want to worry him.”

“Because he’s your partner?”

“Because he already has enough to deal with. Everyone does.”

She leaned forward lightly. “Evan, worrying about each other is part of caring about each other. You let them care about you on the job - why not outside of it?”

He didn’t answer. The clock ticked on, impossibly loud.

She let the silence sit for a long time before she said, “When you first came back, you told me you were grateful to have another chance. Do you still feel that way?”
“Of course,” he said too fast.

“Grateful,” she repeated. 

He nodded.

Her voice stayed gentle. “Grateful can sometimes sound like an obligation. Like something we tell ourselves we should feel.”

He swallowed. “It’s better than being angry.”

“Is that the choice? Grateful or angry?”

He stared at the carpet. The fibres had worn thin near the leg of his chair. “Maybe. I don't know”

“Maybe it’s okay to be both,” she said quietly.

The idea unsettled him.

Anger felt selfish. Ungrateful.

Gratitude felt performative. Forced.

What he didn’t admit was the third feeling lurking underneath both: Guilt.

For surviving something that should have ended him.

For coming back when maybe he hadn’t meant to. 

He didn’t reply. The air in the office felt heavy, thick with things he didn’t want to say. The clock ticked again - thirty eight minutes now.

Each second felt amplified.

Proof that time was moving forward whether he felt connected to it or not.

He wondered, not for the first time, if this was what being untethered felt like - watching life continue without quite anchoring to it. 

She watched him carefully. “You’re watching the clock.”
He gave a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry. Habit.”

“Would you rather stop early today?”

He hesitated. Part of him wanted to bolt; another part wanted her to keep asking until something cracked open. But that middle part - the one that always won - wanted neither. It just wanted quiet. 

“If that’s okay,” he said finally.

Relief and disappointment tangled together in his chest.

Part of him wanted her to push harder.

To demand the truth he was carefully sidestepping.

But if she did, he wasn’t sure what would spill out. 

Dr. Copeland nodded. “We can stop here for today.” She closed her notebook softly, the sound oddly final.
He stood, stretching like he’d been sitting for hours longer than he had. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Evan.”
He paused at the door.

“Try to reach out this week,” she said. “To someone you trust. Just a conversation.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll try.”

Outside, the hallway was bright, almost too bright. The air smelled faintly of citrus cleaner. He blinked against it, the edges of the world sharp and distant at once.

He felt oddly weightless walking down the hallway, like his feet weren’t fully connecting with the floor.

He paused just outside the building, letting the door close behind him.

The world kept moving. Traffic lights changed. A woman laughed into her phone. A dog barked somewhere down the block.

Everything looked painfully real.

He felt slightly transparent. 

He stared at his reflection in the rearview mirror - smudged eyes, faint circles, that same small, polite smile.
“Fine,” he murmured.

The world sounded thinner now. Brittle.

He held his own gaze in the mirror a moment longed, searching for something - recognition, maybe. Proof that the preson looking back was fully him.

For a flciker of a second, the reflection felt unfamiliar.

Then the feeling passed.

He put the truck in gear and merged into traffic, just another car in the flow of the city, moving forward whether he felt ready to or not. 

The loft is too quiet. Buck notices it the second he unlocks the door. Not the peaceful kind of quiet. Not the good kind. The kind that presses in on his ears and makes the refrigerator hum sound like a siren. The kind that makes every movement feel louder than it should be.

The loft used to feel open. Airy. Like possibility. Now it feels staged. Like someone set it up to look like his life and forgot to add the part where he fits inside it. 

For a second he has the disorienting thought that if he turned around quickly enough, he might catch someone else standing there. The real owner. Waiting for him to leave. 

He drops his duffle by the stairs and shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall over the back of a chair instead of hanging it up. He stands there for a second in the middle of the space, keys still in hand, staring at nothing.

He listens to his breathing.

In.

Out.

Steady.

Proof of life.

There was a time when it hadn’t been automatic. When machines had measured it for him. When his body had forgotten how. He rolls his shoulders like he can shake the memory loose. 

It smells like detergent. Clean. Unused. He should shower. He should eat. He should do something. Instead, he walks to the kitchen and leans his palms against the counter, head bowed. 

One month back.

One month of shifts.

One month of pretending this feeling is just readjustment.

Readjustment implies movement. Progress. A sliding back into place. He doens’t feel like he’s sliding. He feels suspended. Like that split second before lightning hits - the air charged, waiting. 

The knock on the door made him flinch. The sound cracks through the quiet like a gunshot. His heart stutturs - a sharp, electric jolt - and for half a second his vision flashes white.

Not now, he thinks. Not here.

He forces his pulse back down, straightens up , shaking it off. Check the clock out of habit - 6:42 p.m. - then moves towards the door.

When he opens it, Maddie is standing there with a small paper bag in one hand and that careful, searching look in her eyes. 

“Hey,” she says softly.

He forces a smile that feels almost convincing. “Hey, you didn’t have to -”

“I was in the neighbourhood.” A lie. She doesn’t call it that, and he doesn’t point it out. “Thought I’d check in.” She lifts the bag. “I brought Thai.”

He steps back to let her in.

The loft feels smaller with her inside it. Fuller, too. Alive in a way that makes his own stillness more obvious. Maddie fills space effortlessly - warmth, movement, breath. He feels like negative space beside her. 

They eat at the kitchen counter. Well - Maddie eats. Buck pushes noodles around his container and takes occasional bites to make it look real. She doesn’t comment on it. 

For a while, they talk about easy things. Dispatch being busy. Chimney accidentally double-booked himself. A new probe at another house who froze on a call. 

Buck laughs in the right places. Nods. Supplies details when she prompts him. It’s practised.

He watches himself do it. The easy grin. The shoulder shrug. The slightly exaggerated eye roll when he mentions Chim. He knows this version of himself. He just doesn’t know why it feels like a costume now. 

“So,” she says eventually, like she’s setting something fragile on the table between them, “how’s it really been? Being back.”

There it is.

He shrugs, keeping his eyes on his food. “Good. Normal. It’s good.”
“Normal good? Or just normal?”
He smirks faintly. “You sound like my therapist.”

The word therapist tastes strange in his mouth. Like admitting something fragile. He wonders if Maddie can hear the slight hesitation before he said it. 

Her eyebrows lift slightly. “You went?”
“Yeah.” He set his fork down, leans back in his stool. Casual. Loose. “It’s fine. We talked about calls. Adjustment stuff.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Buck.”

He exhales through his nose. “It;s fine, Maddie. I’m back at work. I’m doing the job. Bobby stopped looking over my shoulder, worrying - he trusts me. That’s…that’s what matters.”

Bobby trusting him again. Eddie not hovering. Hen not watching him like he might tip over. He measures his worth in those things. If they believe he’s steady, then he must be.

Right?

She studies him.

“What about what you trust?” she asks gently.

He laughs - too quick. “I trust myself. I always have.” 

But there’s a fracture there.

He remembers the moment before the lightning struck - the sky splitting open, the wrong place at the wrong time.

He hadn’t seen it coming.

He hadn’t been in control.

Trust feels thinner now. 

Maddie’s gaze flicks to the clock on the microwave, then back to him. “You look tired.”

“Long shift.”
“You’ve been saying that a lot.”

He has. 

Long shift. 

Fine. 

Normal. 

The words stack up like sandbags against a rising tide. He’s not sure how much longer they’ll hold. 

“Well, it’s true.” He shrugs again. “That’s the job.”

She nods slowly, but she doesn’t look convinced. “What about therapy?” she tries agin. “Are you going to keep going?”

He reaches for his water, buys time with a sip. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Probably.”

He sets the glass down harder than he meant to. The sound sharp in the quiet loft. The noise ricochets around the room. Too loud. Everything feels too loud lately - voices, sirens, silence.

“I don’t need it, Maddie.”

The words land between them.

She doesn’t flinch. “Needing help doesn’t mean something’s wrong with you.”

“Doesn’t it?” Buck replied with more force than he meant to. “Sorry…it’s just I’m fine,” he says again, more firmly this time. “I’m back at the 118. I’m doing the job. I survived. Everything’s…normal.”

Except it didn’t feel that way. 

Normal would mean the ground felt solid again.

Normal would mean he didn’t sometimes look at his hands and feel a split second of unfamiliarity.

Normal would mean the world didn’t occasionally seem like it was moving at a slightly different speed than him. 

Maddie softens. “I’m not interrogating you,” she says quietly. “I just - I want to make sure you’re not caring all of it by yourself.”

He stands up abruptly.

“I’m not.”
The movement surprises both of them.

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing two steps toward the couch before stopping.

The walls feel closer suddenly.

The air heavier.

Maddie rises slowly from her stool.

“Hey,” she says gently. “What’s happening right now?”
“Nothing.” His jaw tightens. “I just - I need soem air.”
“You’re inside.”

“Yeah, I know.”

His chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with smoke or exertion. It’s not a panic attack. He know what those feel like. This is different.

This is pressure. It builds behind his ribs. Not sharp. Not explosive. Just constant. Like something is pulsing outward from the inside and he doesn’t know where it’s supposed to go.

He moves towards the door, grabbing his jacket off the chair.

“Buck -”
“I’m not running,” he snaps, then immediately regrets the tone. “I just need a minute.”
She steps closed instead of backing off. “You don’t need to leave your own place to breathe.”

The words hit something raw. Because that’s what it feels like. Like he doesn’t belong in his own space. Like he’s renting it from the version of himself who existed before the strike. And that version might come back and ask for it. 

He stops moving.

His shoulders sag, just slightly.

For a second, he looks younger than he is. He feels it too. Stripped down to soemthign smaller. Not the firefighter. Not the almost hero. Not the guy who beat death. Just a kid who doesn’t understand why he’s still here when something else might have made more sense.

Maddie closes the distance between them and wraps her arms around him. It’s not dramatic. Not tight at first. Just steady.

He stiffens immediately. Not pulling away.  Just…freezing. 

His body doesn’t know what to do with the contact. He registers warmth. Pressure. The steady rhythm of her breathing against his chest. It feels distant. 

His arms stay at his sides. He stares over her shoulder at the far wall. The hug lasts longer than he expects. Longer than normal. Long enough that he becomes acutely aware of how still he is.

Maddie’s hand shifts against his back, rubbing slowly. Comforting. Familiar. “You don’t have to be okay all the time,” she murmurs.

Something in his throat tightens. He swallows hard.

His hand twitches like they want to move. He wants to feel this. He wants the comfort to land the way it used to - solid, grounding, real. 

Instead there’s nothing. 

He feels the weight of her worry. Of her love. It presses against the hollow place inside him - and instead of filling it, it echoes. After a few more seconds, he forces himself to lift his arms.

They settled awkwardly around her. 

Late.

Careful.

Like he’s copying a gesture instead of feeling it. He squeezes a fraction tighter, just to test it. There’s pressure in his arms. There should be something else. Relief. Maybe. Instead there’s the same hollow echo. 

She does not comment on the delay.She just holds him together for a brief second before pulling back enough to look at him. “I’m here,” she says.

He nods. “I know.” He manages a small smile. It almost reaches his eyes. Almost. 

She studies him one more time like she’s memorising something she doesn’t fully understanding yet.

“Call me,” she says.

“I will.”

Another lie. Or maybe not a lie - maybe just something he doesn’t know how to follow through on. He means it in the moment.

He just doesn’t know which version of himself will be holding the phone when the moment comes. 

She leaves a few minutes later. The door clicks shut behind her. The quiet returns. It settles heavier than before. Now it carries the shape of what just left - Maddie’s voice, her warmth, her concern. The absence feels outlined. 

Buck stands in the middle of the loft again, arms hanging loosely at his sides. He exhales slowly. Then he walks back to the kitchen and throws away the half eaten food.

He checks the clock. 7:18 p.m. The red numbers glow steadily. Unbothered. He watches the seconds tick forward. And just for a moment - barely there - something in him wonders what it would feel like if that clock stopped again.

Not wanting it to. Not exactly. Just… wondering. Would there be another white flash? Another suspended nothing? Would it feel peaceful? The thought scares him more than the image.

He drags in a sharp breath.

He looks away quickly.

Grabs his phone. 

Opens nothing.

Closes it again.

The lofts hums around him. Too quiet. Too clean. Too empty.

He stands there for a long time before finally moving. 

Buck doesn’t remember deciding to drive there. One second he’s in his loft staring at the clock. The next he’s turning onto Eddie’s street. It’s dark now. Porch lights glow soft gold against the evening. The Diaz house windows are lit - warm and alive. 

The light spills onto the lawn in soft rectangles. It looks solid. Anchored. Like something built to withstand storms. For a second he just sits there, watching shadows move across the curtains - Eddie crossing the living room, Christopher’s smaller silhouette darting past. 

Life. Ongoing. 

Unaffected by the strange static lodged under his skin. 

His headlights wash across the garage door. He images staying there. Just sitting. Not going in. Not going back home either. Suspended between two places. 

He didn’t text. He didn’t call. He doesn’t even have a reason prepared. But the thought of going back inside his own apartment - the stillness of it - makes his chest tighten again.

So he kills the engine. Walks up. Knocks.

The door opens after a few seconds. 

Eddie looks surprised - not alarmed, just caught off guard. He’s in a T- shirt and sweats, dish towel slung over one shoulder.

“Hey,” Eddie says.

Buck shrugs like this is normal. “Hey.”

It had been normal once. Buck just showing up. But not anymore. Not since.

Eddie studies him for half a second - takes in the too bright eyes, the tension in his shoulder. Then he steps back and opens the door wider. “Come in.” No questions. 

Buck exhales without meaning to. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath. The air inside the house feels warmer. Thicker. Real. Grounding. 

The house smells like garlic and something tomato based. There’s a low murmur of a TV from the living room. Christopher’s voice carries from somewhere inside. “Dad? Who’s here?”

“Take a guess,” Eddie calls back.

Buck hears the scrape of crutches, the quick rhythm of movement and then Christopher appears in the hallway - face lighting up. “Buck!” And that - that hits differently.

Buck smiles automatically. This one’s real. It surprises him. The smile doesn’t lag. Doesn’t feel constructed. “Hey, Superman.”

Christopher maneuvers towards him and Buck drops into an easy crouch so he can pull him into a hug. This one he doesn’t freeze for. Christopher hugs with his whole body - arms tight around Buck’s neck. Christopher’s weight is solid against him. Alive. Warm. Uncomplicated. 

“You missed dinner,” Christopher informs him seriously.

Buck pulls back with mock offense. “Wow. No hello? Just judgment?”

Christopher grins. “Hi. You missed dinner.”

Eddie snorts softly from the kitchen.

Buck stands, letting Christopher grab his hand and start tugging him toward the couch. “I got an A on my maths test,” Christopher announces.
“No way,” Buck says, matching his enthusiasm. “That’s my genius.”
“Dad helped.”

“Okay, that’s less impressive,” Buck teases.

Eddie tosses the dish towel at him from across the room. Buck catches it easily, grinning.

It’s easier here. 

Here, the noise makes sense. 

Laughter. Questions. The clatter of dishes. No hollow hum of an empty refrigerator. No echo of his own breathing in a too quiet room. 

Here, he doesn’t feel like he’s slightly out of phase with the world. 

Christopher talks animatedly about school projects and a kid who tried to convince everyone that pigeons aren’t real. Buck listens - really listens - nodding, reacting, asking questions. 

Eddie watches from the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. 

There’s something steady about the scene. Domestic. Warm. real. The kind of normal Buck once thought he might want someday. For a little while, the hollow feeling quiets. 

It doesn’t disappear. But it softens at the edges. Like someone turned the volume down on the static in his head. 

Christopher insists on showing Buck his latest drawing - a carefully coloured picture of the fire engine with exaggerated flames and three sticks figures in turnout gear.

“That one’s you,” Christopher says, pointing. 

Buck studies it like it’s a masterpiece. “Wow. I look buff.”

“You are buff,” Christopher says matter of factly.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Buck laughs. And for a few minutes, he almost feels like himself again. Almost.

There’s still that faint awareness beneath it - like he’s testing out the feeling, waiting to see if it sticks. Waiting for the disconnect to snap back into place. 

Later, after Christopher is tucked into bed - after Buck helps with the nightly routine without even thinking about it, after he does the silly dramatic reading of a paragraph from the book because Christopher insists - the house settles into quiet.  Eddie closes Christopher’s bedroom door softly. 

Buck is standing in the living room, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, staring at the framed photos on the wall. 

There’s one from the day Eddie moved in. One from Christopher’s birthday. One of the three of them at the zoo. Buck studies his own face in the glass. He looks happy. Open. solid. He tried to remember what that felt like. 

Eddie watches him for a moment. 

“You have eaten, yes?” Eddie asks him, opening the fridge and pulling out two beers handing one to Buck.

Buck rolls his eyes, “Yes, Eddie,” he replies in a mocking tone. 

The ease between them slips into place like muscle memory. 

Tease. Deflect. Smile. 

He leans into it because it’s familiar. Because familiar feels safe.

Eddie gestures to Buck to sit on the couch and Buck does. Eddie sips his beer before asking, “You wanna tell me why you came over tonight?” There’s no accusation in it. Just gentle curiosity. 

Buck shrugs without turning to face him. He focuses on the condensation sliding down the beer bottle. Tracks it with his eyes. Anything to avoid the weight of Eddie’s gaze - steady, patient, impossible to outrun.

“Can’t I just visit my favourite Diaz men?”
“You can,” Eddie says evenly. “But you’ve been calling first.”

Buck huffs a faint breath that might almost be a laugh. Silence stretches. 

Eddie fully turned his body on the couch. "You okay?"
The question sits between them.

Buck nods automatically. “Yeah.”

Eddie doesn’t respond to that. He just waits.

Buck shifts to face Eddie. “I just…didn’t want to be alone tonight,” he finally admits, voice quieter.

The truth hangs there, fragile. He doesn’t dress it up. Doesn’t minimise it. It feels bigger than it should. 

That gets Eddie’s attention. “Was it yesterday’s shift?”

“No. Shift was fine.”

“Therapy?”

Buck’s jaw tightens slightly. “You talk to my sister?”
Eddie raises an eyebrow. “You think I need Maddie to tell me something’s off?”

There’s no judgment in it. Just certainty. Eddie has always been good at reading him. Sometimes better than Buck reads himself. That used to feel reassuring. Now it feels exposing. 

Buck exhales slowly. Stands up, leaning back against the wall. For a second, he looks like he’s considering something. Then he asks, almost casually, “What do you remember?”

Eddie frowns slightly. “About?”

Buck’s eyes flick up to meet his. “Getting shot.”

He doesn’t know how to talk about the lightning.

About white light and nothingness.

About waking up and not being sure if you’re supposed to be here.

So he asks about a bullet instead. 

The room goes still. Eddie doesn’t react outwardly - not much. But something shutters behind his eyes. “Buck.”

“What do you remember?” Buck presses, but it’s not aggressive. It’s searching.

“I remember the sound,” he says after a moment. “Not like in the movies. It was… smaller. Quieter than I thought it’d be.”

Buck doesn’t move. He listens like it’s a briefing. Cataloguing details. Sound. Pressure. Pain. trying to map Eddie’s experience onto his own black space.

“I remember thinking it didn’t hurt at first,” Eddie continues. “Just pressure. Like someone pushed me.” His gaze goes distant for half a second. “And then it did hurt.”

Buck swallows. “Were you scared?” he asks. 

The word feels heavier than he expects. Scared is easier than what he actually wants to ask.

Did it feel final?
Did it feel like something was ending?

Eddie’s eyes snap back to him. “Yeah,” he says plainly.

Eddie doesn't hesitate. Doesn’t hide it. Just says it. 

“Not for me,” Eddie adds. “For Chris.”
Buck’s throat tightens. 

Eddie watches him carefully now.
“Why are we talking about this?”

Buck looks away. 

“I just -” He struggles for words. “What about after? Did you think you were gonna…die?” Buck’s fingers curl inside his sleeves. 

Eddie stands from the couch and steps closer, not enough to crowd him, just enough to close some of the space.
“It was bad, I knew that,” Eddie says simply. “And it was out of my control.”

That’s the part that hooks into Buck’s ribs. Out of my control. Lightning hadn’t asked him either. It had just decided. 

“Do you -” He hesitates. “Do you ever think about what could’ve happened? Like… if you didn’t get lucky?”

Eddie’s expression shifts.
“I used to,” he says carefully.

Buck nods quickly, like he expected that answer. 

Silence settles again.

Eddie tilts his head slightly. “Buck.”
Buck forces a small smile. It doesn’t hold. “I’m fine,” he says again.

The word feels thinner here. Under Eddie’s steady gaze, it almost disintegrates. He wondered what would happen if he let it. If he said the other thing instated.

I don’t feel right.

I don’t feel real.

I don’t know why I’m still here.

The words press against his teeth. He swallows them. 

Eddie’s doesn’t buy it. “Buck.”

Buck contemplates saying something but after a moment he straightens up. “I should go.”

“What? You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

But he’s already moving toward the door. Eddie follows him. 

At the threshold, Buck pauses. For a second, it looks like he might say something. Instead, he just nods. “Night.”

“Buck.”
He looks back.

Eddie’s voice softens. “Whatever you’re not saying - you don’t have to carry it alone.”
Buck holds his gaze. And for a split second, something almost cracks. But then it steals back up. It’s easier to retreat. Easier to keep the fracture internal.

“I know,” he says. He steps out. The door closed gently behind him. 

The warmth cuts off immediately. The night air sharper by comparison. He shoves his hands into his hoodie pocket like he can hold onto the residual heat.

Buck stands there for a long moment, staring at nothing. He considers turning back. Knocking again. Saying it. Any of it. Instead he inhales slowly and lets the moment pass. 

The streetlights blur slightly as he passes them. His hands grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary. He doesn’t turn on the radio. He just drives. And this time, when he glances at the clock on the dashboard, he doesn’t look away quite as quickly. 

The loft is darker than it was earlier. 

Buck doesn’t turn on all the lights when he gets home. Just the lamp by the couch. Just enough to keep the shadows from pressing too close. 

The rest of the loft stays in soft grey. Shapes instead of objects. He prefers it that way. In full light, everything feels too defined - like it’s daring him to admit he doesn’t quite feel solid inside it. 

It’s late. He doesn’t check the time. He knows if he checks the time, it becomes real. 

He drops his keys in the bowl by the door. The sound echoes louder than it should. He stands there for a moment, listening to the quiet settle back over everything. 

It’s immediate. Like the space inhales the second he stops moving. He wonders if this is what it sounded like when he wasn’t breathing. 

The thought lands wrong. He swallows it down. 

The refrigerator hums. Somewhere outside, a car passes. The low sweep of tires over pavement. 

He exhales and shrugs out of his jacket. He’s not tired. That’s the problem. He should be tired. Double emotional shift: work, therapy, Maddie, Eddie. But his body feels wound tight instead of worn down. 

Like there’s electricity under his skin. Not enough to burn. Just enough to buzz. His fingers twitch slightly at his sides, like they’re waiting for instructions that never come. 

He walks to the kitchen and opens the dishwasher. It’s clean. He knows it’s clean. He remembers running it this morning. He opens it anyway. Stares at the empty racks. Closes it. 

He grabs a plate from the cabinet, sets it on the counter. Picks it up again. Puts it back.

He half expects something to be different. Like the world might shift when he isn’t looking. But everything is exactly where it should be. Ordered. Predictable. Unlike the inside of his head. 

Laundry. That’s something to do. He gathers the hamper from the corner of the loft and dumps it onto the floor. Sorts without really looking. White. Dark. Turnout undershirts separate. The washing machine kicks on with a low mechanical churn. The sound fills the silence. Good. 

Machines are easier. They hum. They churn. They finish what they start. He presses his palm flat against the top of the washer, feeling the vibration travel up his arm. Proof of movement. Proof of function. 

He leans against the wall beside it and closes his eyes for just a second. Darkness. Beeping. A steady, rhythmic tone. He opens his eyes immediately. Not here. Not now. 

For a split second the darkness behind his eyelids feels too deep. Like if he leaned into it, he might fall. He pushes off the wall quickly, breath shallow. He doesn’t want to find out how far down it goes. 

He walks back upstairs. 

The clock on his bedside table reads 12:47 a.m. He hadn’t meant to look. Now he can’t unsee it. 

Time becomes measurable once you look at it. Concrete. Countable. He does the math automatically - if he falls asleep now, he could still get four hour. He knows he won’t. 

Buck sits on the edge of his bed, phone in hand. Scrolling. Instagram first. Mindless. A few likes from colleagues on some random training video the department posted earlier in the week. 

Then he opens his camera roll. He doesn’t think about it before he does it. Photos. The team at Coney Island last summer. Hen mid laugh, head thrown back. Chim making a face behind Bobby’s shoulder. Eddie holding Christopher so he could see the ocean better. Buck in the corner of the frame - sunburned, smiling wide. 

The photos move past like someone else’s memories. Sunlight. Crowds. Laughter frozen mid frame. He remembers being there. He ust doesn’t remember feeling this far away from himself inside those moments. 

A picture from just after he got back from the coma - the first shift photo. Bobby’s arm firm around his shoulders. Everyone squeezed in tight. He remembers how that felt. Like coming home. 

So why does it feel like he’s standing in the doorway? Like everyone else stepped fully back into place. And he’s hovering just outside the frame. Visible. Present. Not entirely inside. 

He scrolls further back. 

Hospital. He doesn’t remember taking most of these. There’s one of him in a hospital bed, pale, a little too still. Tubes. Monitors in the background. 

The memory doesn’t come all at once. It never does. It’s fragments. White ceiling tiles. The dry scrape of oxygen in his nose. 

Maddie’s voice somewhere to his left, saying his name like she’s afraid it’ll disappear if she stops. Bobby sitting in the corner chair, silent but solid. 

There had been a moment - he can’t tell if it’s a real memory or something his brain stitched together later - where everything felt suspended. 

No pain.

No sound.

Just absence.

Not peaceful.

Just unfinished.

Like a sentence cut off mid word.

He squeezes his eyes shut. It wasn’t peaceful. People always say that about near death stuff, like it’s some soft drift into quiet. It wasn’t. It was confusion. It was wanting to move and not being able to. It was unfinished. 

His thumb hovers over the screen. There’s a photo Eddie must have taken - Buck doesn’t remember it - of Christopher sitting carefully beside his hospital bed, small hand resting on the blanket near Buck’s arm. He looks… scared.

Christopher’s hand is small against the hospital blanket. Careful. Like Buck might break. He remembers that feeling when he finally opened his eyes - everyone looking at him like he’d returned from somewhere unreachable. Like he was fragile glass. He hates that look. Almost as much as he hates missing it now. 

Buck swallows.

He locks the phone.

The dark screen reflects his face back at him. Eyes shadowed. Jaw tight. He almost doesn’t recognise himself. It feels detached from him. 

The loft feels louder now. Traffic hum filters in through the windows. Not constant - just occasional bursts. A distant siren somewhere far enough away that it’s background noise, not urgency. 

The clock downstairs ticks. He can hear it from here. He never noticed that before. The ticking feels amplified. Like it’s inside the loft. Inside his chest. Marking time he didn’t experience. Three minutes. How many ticks was that?

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

He stands abruptly. Paces to the railing. Looks down at the open space below. The lamp casts long shadows across the floor. He grips the railing. Breathes in. Breathes out.

The open space below him feels wider than usual. He grips the railing itgher. Grounding. He isn;t dizzy. He just feels…untethered. Like gravity is a suggestion instead of a rule. 

He remembers waking up.

After. 

Not the hospital. After the hospital. The first time he stood up on his own again. Everyone watching. Waiting. Like he might shatter. He’d smiled. Made a joke. Said something about nine lives. 

They’d laughed. Relief flooding the room so thick it almost felt physical. He’d given them what they needed in that moment. Humour. Reassurance. Proof he was still Buck. He wonders if he convinced himself too. 

He wonders now if that was the moment something shifted. Not the water. Not the lightning. But the realisation that everyone looked at him like he’d come back something he shouldn’t have. Like it was luck. Luck runs out. 

The thought sinks in quietly. Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. Just matter of fact. He pressed his lips together hard. He doesn’t like how reasonable it sounds.

He walks back downstairs. The laundry hum has stopped. He transfers it to the dryer. The thud of damp fabric fills the machine. Another sound in the quiet. He wipes down the already clean kitchen counter. Rearranges the mail into a neater stack. Checks the door lock. Checks it again. 

He knows it’s locked. He watched the bolt slide into place. Still, he twists it once more. Certainty feels slippery lately. 

The clock reads 2:13 a.m. now. He doesn’t remember watching that much time pass. It’s like blinking and losing pieces. He was awake for those minutes. Moving. Thinking. But they feel hollow in hindsight. Unanchored. 

His chest feels tight again. Not sharp. Not spiraling. Just pressure behind his ribs. Awareness of his own heartbeat. Steady. Persistent. Inescapable. 

He goes to the small desk near the window. There’s a notebook there. Half used. Mostly food shopping lists, random training notes, a few scribbled workout plans.

He pulls it closer. Sits. stares at the black page. 

The paper feels heavier than it should. Like whatever he write will solidify something he’s been avoiding naming. He taps the pen once against the margin. The sound is too loud in the quiet. 

The city outside hums faintly.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

He picks up a pen. Holds it above the paper. For a long time, he doesn’t move. Then, he starts writing. Not fast. Careful. Deliberate. The words are small. 

The first line is simple. I don't feel right. He stares at it for a long time. Adds another. Sometimes it feels like I didn’t come back all the way. His chest tightens. The words look foreign on the page. Too honest. Too real. 

He pauses halfway through a sentence. What if I - 

The pen stops there. The unfinished thought throbs louder than the ticking clock. He presses the pen harder against the paper until the ink bleeds slightly. 

Then, without letting himself think about it. He tears the page out. The sound rips through the loft. Too loud. Too final. He crumpets the paper in his fist. Stands. Walks to the bin. Hovers. For a split second, it looks like ge might smooth it back out. Instead, he drops it in. It lands softly against the empty bin. 

The sound is small. Anticlimatic. Like the thought never mattered. But he can still feel it sitting under his skin. Unwritten doesn’t mean gone. 

He stands there a long time after that. Staring. Then he turns off the lamp. The loft plunges into darkness. The clock keeps ticking. 

In the dark, the loft feels bigger. Emptier. He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling he can barely see. Counts breaths instead of seconds.

In.

Out.

Still here.

The words don’t comfort him. But they’re true. And for now, that has to be enough. 

Buck doesn’t remember falling asleep. He remembers the clock reading 3:42 a.m. He remembers rolling onto his side. After that - nothing. 

For a split second, when he wakes, there’s a strange, hollow relief. No dreams. No flashes of white light. No beeping monitors. Just blankness. The absence feels almost familiar - like the space between a lightning flash and the thunder that follows. Suspended. Waiting. He doesn’t know which part is worse - the noise or the quiet. 

When his alarm goes off at 4:30, it feels like he only blinked. He turns it off before it can ring twice. The loft is still dark. For a second, he lies there staring at the ceiling, disoriented. Then the restlessness returns.

It starts in his fingers. A twitch beneath the skin. Then his chest, tight and electric, like something’s trying to discharge and can’t find a ground. He presses his palm flat against his sternum, half expecting to feel a tremor under the bone. His heartbeat is steady. Too steady. Proof of life. It doesn’t make him feel better. 

Fine. If he can’t sleep, he can move. Movement is something he understands.

He pulls on running shoes, a hoodie, shorts. Doesn’t check his phone. Doesn’t check the time again.

He catches his reflection briefly in the dark window by the door. Pale in the low light. The reflection feels delayed - like it’s watching him instead of mirroring him. He looks away first. 

Outside, the city is caught in that strange in between hour - not night, not morning. Streetlight still glowing, sky barely hinting at grey. The air is cold enough to bite. 

He starts at a jog. Slow at first. Testing. Then faster. Breath in. Breath out. Pavement beneath his shoes. 

The rhythm settles quickly. Muscles memory takes over. His body knows how to do this without thinking. 

Left foot. Right foot.

Breath in. Breath out.

He focuses on the mechanics.

He catalogues sensations the way he would on a call. Pulse elevated. Lungs expanding. No dizziness. No weakness. Functional. Operational. The checklist steadies him. As long as he can measure it, it’s real. As long as it hurts a little, it’s his. 

He runs past closed shops, dark windows reflecting back a distorted version of himself - elongated, shadowed. He picks up speed.

For a heartbeat, he imagines outrunning it - the memory of the world splitting opening above him, the crack of thunder. He remembers the weightlessness, the sense of being untethered. He’d thought, dimly, that maybe this was what dying felt like: not dramatic, just…slipping. The thought makes him push harder. 

The city starts to wake in small ways. A bus groans past. A delivery truck idles at a curb. Somewhere a metal gate rattles upward. His heart pounds harder now.

Good. Let it pound. Let it drown everything else. 

He cuts toward the overpass - a longer route than usual. The incline burns. He leans into it. 

Breath in.

Breath out.

By the time he reaches the top, sweat beads at the back of his neck despite the chill. 

For a fleeting, reckless second, he wonders how far he could push before something gives. If his body would warn him. If it would simply stop. The thought isn’t a wish exactly. Just curiosity. A test of the boundary. He swallows it down and keeps moving. 

He slows slightly on the descent. That’s when he sees him. Under the bridge. A man curled on his side against the concrete wall. Thin blanket. Backpack rucked under his head like a makeshift pillow. Still. 

Buck’s stride falters before he can stop it. 

Stillness used to mean rest. Now it means something else. Monitors going flat. Rooms filling with people too quickly. Hands pressing to his chest. Voices raised just enough to stay controlled. He knows the difference between sleeping and not - he’s trained for it. His eyes scan automatically: rise and fall of breath. Subtle movement. Signs of life. He finds them. The man is breathing. The tension in Buck’s shoulders doesn’t ease. 

He doesn’t know what makes him look twice. Maybe it’s the way the man’s shoes are lined up neatly beside him. Maybe it’s how carefully the blanket is tucked around his shoulders. Maybe it’s just the fact that he’s there - visible and invisible at the same time.

Buck slows to a walk. The air feels colder suddenly. The man doesn’t stir. Cars pass overhead in dull, distant thuds. Buck stands there longer than makes sense. 

He thinks about the hospital room again. How many times he lay there unaware while people came and went. How many conversations happened over him. About him. As if he wasn’t in the room at all. He had been there. Somewhere. Trapped behind his own silence. Watching through a fog he couldn’t push through. 

He thinks about how many times he’s driven past this overpass. How many times he’s probably never looked down. How many times he’s missed it. Missed him.

A flicker of something uncomfortable moves through his chest. He doesn’t know this man’s story. Doesn’t know how he got here. But he knows what it’s like to feel like you’re standing in plain sight and no one is really seeing you.

The thought comes quietly.

When did that start?

During his childhood? When his parents saw a different boy, a dead one. 

During the lawsuit? When the 118 refused to even look his way. 

Maybe after the coma. 

When everyone looked at him like he was fragile. Like he was lucky. Like he’d already used up something he shouldn’t have. Everyone was looking but no one was seeing him.

They saw the miracle. The second chance. The headline version of it. Not the quiet aftermath. Not the way sound sometimes drops out for half a second and leaves him suspended. Not the way he wakes up unsure if he’s fully back. Gratitude is easier to accept than fear. So he lets them be grateful. And keep the rest to himself. 

The man shifts slightly in his sleep, face turning toward the faint light of dawn. For a second, Buck imagines what it would be like to lie down there. To be that still. To stop moving. The image unsettles him enough that he inhales sharply.

He takes a step back. Then another. He doesn’t approach. Doesn’t wake him. Doesn’t leave anything. He just stands there. Witnessing. And for the first time in weeks, he feels sharply aware of how thin the line is between seen and unseen.

Between valued and overlooked.

Between essential and…extra.

He thinks about the lawsuit. About being benched. About how quickly the engine kept rolling without him. The 118 still answered calls. Still saved people. The world hadn’t titled off its axis. It had just…adjusted. The thought had gutted him then. It unsettled him now for a different reason. 

If the world can adjust that easily, what exactly is he holding onto?

A car horn blares somewhere nearby. Buck blinks. The spell break. He turns and resumes running. Faster now. As if he can outrun the thought. 

By the time he reaches the next intersection, the sky has lightened to a muted grey blue. The crossing signal shines with a green walking figure.

He jogs into the street. Halfway across, he slows. Not because he’s tired. Because something inside him stutters. The city stretched around him - tall buildings, windows reflecting the early light. People move at the edges of the pavements now. Commuters. Cyclists. A woman with a coffee in hand.

No one looks at him. No one notices that he’s stopped in the middle of the road.

His face has been on local news more than once. He’s been called a hero. And still - in this moment - he could dissolve into the air and the morning would continue uninterrupted.

The realisation is both terrifying and strangely comforting. 

The signal above him begins to flash. The green walking figure blinks. Then turns red.

Buck stands there. 

Cars idle at the intersection, waiting for the light to change. He’s still technically in the right of way. Still technically allowed to move. But he doesn’t. For a strange, suspoended moment, it feels like the whole city is paused around him. Like he’s stepped outside the rhythm. Invisible. 

If he stayed here long enough, would anyone shout? Would anyone care?

A driver revs an engine impatiently. The traffic light turns green.

That snaps him out of it.

He jogs the rest of the way across, heart pounding again - but not from exertion. 

On the opposite curb, he stops and bends forward, hands braced on his knees. Breathing hard.

Breath in. 

Breath out.

He presses his hand to his thigh to steady himself. Solid muscle. Solid ground. The world hasn’t flickered out. He’s still here. He tells himself that should be enough. 

The sky shifts brighter by the second. Morning fully arriving. People passing him now - not unkind, not cruel. Just not looking. 

He straightens slowly. Rolls his shoulders. Tells himself he’s being dramatic. It’s just lack of sleep. Just adjustment. Just the lingering edge of everything he went through. But edges cut. Even when they look smooth.

He checks his watch. He’s been running longer than he planned. He turns towards home.

The city feels louder now. Busier. Alive. 

He merges into the flow of people moving down the pavement. Matching their pace. Blending in. And as he runs, he can’t shake the image of the man under the bridge. Still. Curled inward. Unnoticed. 

Buck focuses on his breath again. On the pavement. On the steady rhythm of his stride. Forward. Just forward. But the question lingers quietly in the back of his mind: When did I start feeling invisible too?

By the time Buck reaches his building again, the sun has fully risen. The city has shifted from grey blue to gold. His lungs burn in a way that feels earned. Good. That's something he understands. Pain with a soure. Effort with a result. Cause and effect. No ambiguity. 

He jogs up the steps to his loft, sweat cooling too quickly against his skin. His legs feel heavy now - not restless, just spent. 

He unlocks the door and steps inside. The quiet greets him again. But this time it feels different. Not sharp. Muted. Like he left soemthing behind on the pavement. Or like something followed him back and is standing just out of sight. 

He closes the door with his heel and leans back against it for a second, chest rising and falling. The clock reads 7:12 a.m. Later than he thought. Time keeps slipping lately. Stretching when he wants it compressed. Vanishing when he wants it anchored.

He pushed off the door and walks straight to the kitchen sink, truing the tap on full cold. Cups water into his hands. Drinks. Splashes his face. The cold shocks his skin. For a second, it almost feels like surfacing. Like breaking through something thick. 

He feels wrung out. Not calmer. Just emptied. Like he poured everything into the pavement and didn’t get anything back. 

He grabs his phone from his bedside table where he left it this morning. The screen lights up. Three notifications. Two department emails. One missed call. Eddie. Time stamp: 6:38 a.m.

Buck frowns faintly. That’s early. Even for Eddie. There’s a voicemail icon too. And a text. He opens the text first.

Eddie:

You should come around unannounced more often. We’ve missed you.

Buck stares at the words longer than necessary. The lettes blur slightl, like his eyes don’t want to settle on them. He reads it again anyway. 

Missed you.

Not “it was good to see you.”

Not “thanks for coming.”

Missed. Present tense. Ongoing. 

Something shifts in his chest - not painful, just tight. Like he’s been absent longer than he realised. 

He opens the voicemail. Eddie’s voice fills the quiet loft.

“Hey. Uh. Don’t know if you’re awake. Christ just asked if you could come for dinner tonight.” A pause. A faint rustle, like Eddie adjusting the phone. “No pressure. Just…yeah. Call me back.”

The message ends. The silence that follows feels louder than the words did. 

Buck stands there, holding the phone staring at nothing. He hadn’t thought about what it looked like from the other side. Showing up unannounced. Leaving just as abruptly. Declining invitations. Choosing the edge of the room. The doorway. The exit. 

He tells himself it’s nothing. People get busy. He’s adjusting. They’ll understand. But the text lingers. We’ve missed you. When did that start?

He types out a reply.

Sorry, was out on a run. Didn’t see this.

Deleted it. 

Types again.

Shift today. Maybe later this week.

Deletes that too. Every version sounds like an excuse. Or worse - a goodbye in slow motion.

Eventually, he settles on: Yeah. Maybe soon.

He hits send before he can overthink it. The response bubble appears almost immediately.

Door’s always open. The words land gently. No pressure. No accusation. Just space held. 

Buck echales slowly. The words should feel comforting. Instead, they feel like a spotlight. He locks the phone. Sets it down. Walks toward the stairs to shower - then stops halfway there. He doesn’t know why. Just stands on the bottom step, hand on the railing, like he forgot what he was about to do.

He glances back at the balcont doors. At the city beyond. Door’s always open. He wonders - not for the first time - how long you can keep stepping through an open door before people start noticing you’re only hallways inside. How long before they stop calling you in.

He shakes the thought off. He’s going to be late.

Buck pulls into the station parking lot eight minutes late. He never runs late. Not unless something’s wrong. He kills the engine and sits there for half a second, hands still on the wheel. It’s just eight minutes. He grabs his bag and heads inside.

Eight minutes isn’t catastrophic. But it feels like a crack in something that used to be solid. 

The bay doors are open. Sunlight spills across the apparatus floor. Chim and Hen are mid conversation near the engine. Eddie’s checking inventory. 

Buck steps into the rhythm like he belongs there. Because he does. “Morning,” he calls, voice easy. He pitches it just right. Casual. Unbothered. Practised. 

Hen glances at the clock mounted on the wall. Raises and eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

Eddie looks up. Their eyes meeting for a second. Eddie gives him a small nod. Buck nods back. Normal. Everything normal. 

He’s halfway to his locker when Bobby’s voice carries from behind him. “Buck.” It’s not sharp. Just firm. 

Buck turns. “Cap.”

Bobby gestures toward hsi office with a tilt of his head. “When you’ve got a minute.” There’s no accusation in it. But there doesn’t need to be. Booby doesn’t waste words on things he already understands.

Buck nods. “Yeah.”

Inside the office, the door closes with a quiet click. The sound of the station muffle instantly.

Bobby doesn’t sit right away. He leans against the edge of his desk instead, arms loosely crossed.

“You’re late,” he says evenly.

“Eight minutes,” Buck replied. Light. Almost teasing. If he keeps it platful, it can’t turn serious.

Bobby doesn’t smile. “That’s not like you.”

Buck shrugs. “Overslept.”
“Didn’t think you were sleeping much these days.”

The comment lands too close. It feels like Bobby reached past the excuse and hit bone. Buck’s jaw tightens slightly before he smooths it out. “I’m fine, Cap.”

There it is again. Fine. The word is starting to feel like a shield with cracks in it. 

Bobby studies him. Not the way a superior studies an employee. The way someone who’s watched you nearly die studies you. Like he’s checking for fractures that don’t show up on scans. 

“You look tired,” Bobby says.

“Early run.”

“That so.”

Buck nods once.

Silence settles between them. It’s not uncomfortable. But it’s not casual either. It’s deliberate. Measured. Bobby giving him room to step into the truth.

Bobby walks around the desk now adn sits, folding his hands in front of him. “How are you doing?” he asks. 

Not “how was you run.”

Not “why were you late.”

How are you doing.

Buck feels the urge to deflect. To joke. To pivot to paperwork. Instead he says, “Just tired.”

Half truth. Technically accurate. He wonders if Bobby can hear the rest of it anyway.

Bobby watches him carefully. “Tired how?”

Buck shrugs again. “Didn’t sleep great. Been a long couple weeks.” Also true. Not the whole truth. The whole truth would require words he doesn’t have yet.

Bobby leans back slightly in his chair. “You’ve had long weeks before.”
Buck forces a small smile. “Guess I’m getting old.”

That earns the faintest hint of a smile from Bobby - but it fades quickly. “You know I won’t hesitate to pull you if I think you’re not fit for duty. Bobby says quietly. It’s not a threat. It’s protection. And somehow that makes it harder to push back against. 

Buck straightens instinctivley. “I’m fit.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
“But you’re thinking it.”

Bobby holds his gaze. “I’m thinking you’re carrying something.” 

The words hang there. Buck feels exposed in a way that makes his shoulders tense. “I’m not,” he says. Another half truth. He doesn’t have a name for it yet. So technically, he isn’t carrying something specific. Just a weight with no label.

Bobby’s voice softens. “You don’t ahve to power through everything alone.”

That lands. Because Buck does know how to do that. Has always known. “I’m not alone,” Buck says. Also true. Hen. Chim. Eddie. Maddie. Bobby. All there. All watching. Waiting for cracks. For warning signs. For weakness.

Bobby studies him for another long second. Whatever he sees - or doesn’t see - makes him exhale quietly. “If you need time,” Bobby says, “you ask.”

Buck nods immediately. “I will.” They both know he won’t. Because asking would mean admitting something is wrong.

Bobby lets it go. “For now,” he says, “get to work.”

Buck nods again. “Yeah, Cap.”

He steps back into the noise of the station. The shfit resumes around him like nothing happened. Like the conversation didn’t leave fingerprints.

Eddie glances over as he returns to the floor. “You good?” Eddie asks quietly. 

Buck flashes a grin. “Always.” The words tastes hollow.

Eddie doesn’t look convinced. But he lets it drop. 

The tones drop at 10:42 a.m.

Buck is already on his feet before the dispatcher finishes the address. “Medical aid, possible dehydration, conscious and breathing.”

Routine.

Chim’s in the driver’s seat. Hen beside him. Eddie across from Buck in the back, already pulling gloves from the compartment. 

Buck doesn’t think. He moves. 

The hesistaition that lives in him lately - the second guessing, the static - disappears the second the tones hit. There’s no room for it here. No space for doubt between action and response. He reaches for the jump bag before he consciously decides to. His hands are steady. Of course they are. 

The engine roars to life. The familiar choreography settles over him like muscle memory. Sirens. Traffic parting. The 118 in motion. For a few minutes, everything feels clean and clear.

There is a problem. They are going to solve it. That’s the job. 

It’s simple in a way nothing else is anymore. You assess. You intervene. You stabilise. You transport. Or you document. There are boxes to check. Outcomes to measure. Either someone improves - or they don’t. There’s clarity in that. A beginning and an end. 

The apartment building is older - faded paint, narrow stairwell that smells faintly of dust and old carpet. 

Second floor. Door already open. A middle aged man sits slumped at the edge of a worn couch when they step inside. He’s conscious. Pale. Thin in a way that looks generic and more situational.

Not illness, exactly. Not something dramatic. Just erosion. The kind that happens slowly enough that no one can pinpoint when it started.  

A woman - neighbour, maybe - stands nearby wringing her hands. “He hasn’t been eating,” she says quickly. “He got dizzy. I thought he was gonna pass out.”

Buck kneels in front of the man. “Hey. I’m Buck. Can you tell me your name?”
“Frank,” the man mutters.

“Hi, Frank.” His voice is steady. Warm. The version of himself he knows how to be. 

He slides into it the way he slides into turnout gear. Confident. Reassuring. Solid. No cracks. No questions about whether he deserves to be here.

Hen moves in beside him, efficient and calm. Eddie checks vitals. Chim sets up the monitor.

Frank’s blood pressure is low. Pulse weak but steady.

“You feeling nauseous?” Buck asks.

Frank shrugs.”Just tired.” He meets Buck’s eyes briefly. Buck recognises that look. Exhaustion that goes deeper than sleep. The kind that sits behind the eyes and doesn’t budge no matter how long you lie down. The kind Buck’s been waking up with for weeks. 

“Have you been drinking enough water?” Buck tries gently.

Another shrug. “Don’t matter much.”

The words land heavier than they should. Buck still for half a second. It’s barely noticeable - a flicker. Eddie’s eyes cut toward him anyway. Buck feels it and smooths his expression before anyone can name it. 

“Yeah, it does,” he says lightly. “Dehydration can mess you up. We’d like to take you in, get you fluids.”

Frank shakes his head almost immediately. “No hospital.”

The neighbour starts protesting. “Frank -”

“I said no.”

Buck shifts slightly, staying at eye level. “Okay,” he says evenly. “You can refuse. That’s your call. But help me understand why.”

He hears the echo of it - words he’s said before in different contexts. To victims. To jumpers. To people standing on edges. Meet them where they are. Don’t argue. Ask. 

Frank’s gaze drifts towards the window. “Nothing they can do I can’t do here.”

“That’s not true,” Hen says calmly. “You could pass out. Hit your head.”

Frank gives a humourless huff. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

The room goes quiet. Not dramatic. Just heavy. Buck feels something inside him tighten. He keeps his voice steady. “You don’t mean that.”
Frank doesn’t look at him. “Don’t I?” 

There’s no threat in it. No plea for attention. Just fact. Buck recognises that too - the difference between someone wanting to be saved and someone who isn’t sure it’s worth the effort. 

Buck hears his own voice speaking - explaining risks, outlining options, offering transport again. Professional. Measured. He knows how to do this. He lays out the consequences the way Bobby taught him. Clear. Honest. No judgment. He watches Frank’s face for microreactions - fear, doubt, hesitation. Anything he can work with. There’s almost nothing there. 

But as he talks, there’s an undercurrent he can’t ignore. The way Frank’s eyes look past him. The way his shoulders slump like gravity has increased. The way he keeps saying it doesn’t matter. It mirrors something. Something Buck hasn’t named yet. 

Hen eventually straightens. “Frank,” she says gently, “we can’t force you. But if you refuse, you have to sign.”

Frank nods. He signs. His hand shakes slightly. Buck watches the pen move across the paper. Watches the finality of it. Choice made.

Buck feels the familiar frustration rise - the one that comes when someone steps away from help. It’s different from anger. It’s heavier. Like watching a door close slowly and knowing you’re not allowed to wedge your foot in.

They pack up. The neighbour promises to check on him again later. Buck lingers half a second longer than necessary. “Drink some water,” he says quietly.

Frank gives him a look that’s almost amused. “Sure.”

It’s not agreement. It’s not dismissal.

It’s the same tone Buck uses when someone tells him to “take it easy.” Polite. Noncommittal. Already planning to ignore the advice. 

Back in the rig, the doors slam shut. The siren stays off this time. Just engine noise. Chim pulls into traffic. No one speaks for a minute. Then Hen glances back at Buck. “You did good in there.”

Buck shrugs automatically. “Routine.”

If he calls it routine, it doesn’t get to mean anything. If it doesn’t mean anything, it can’t follow him home.

“Still,” she says. “You met him where he was.”

He nods once. Doesn’t know what to do with that. 

Eddie watches him for a beat longer than the others. There’s a question in it. Eddie doesn’t ask. Buck is grateful. And not. 

Buck stares out the window. The city slides by in blurred colour. They did everything right. Vitals assessed. Risks explained. Refusal documented. Procedure followed. Everything in order. So why does it feel like something’s unresolved?

Because he knows what it’s like to be the one signing the form without meaning to. To be the one drifting while everyone else makes decisions around you. And he can’t shake the sense that he just walked away from something he recognised too well. 

The rest of the shift is uneventful. A lift assist. A false alarm. Paperwork. Lunch at the kitchen table. Buck laughs when Ravi tells a story about a disastrous first date. He participates. He’s there. But there’s a distance under his skin.

Later, as they clean equipment in the bay, Eddie bumps his shoulder lightly against Buck’s.

“Beer tonight?” Eddie asks casually. “There’s that new place on Alameda.” It’s an easy offer. No pressure. Just space held open. 

Buck doesn’t look up from the hose he’s coiling. “Can’t.”

Eddie tilts his head. “Date?”

“No.”
“Then what?”

Buck shrugs. “Just…stuff.”

He doesn’t have the language for it. How do you explain that you feel like a guest in your own life?

Eddie studies him for a second. “You’ve been saying no a lot lately.”

Buck gives a half smile, “I came over yesterday.”

“That wasn’t planned.”

Buck finishes coiling the hose and sets it down. “I’m just tired, man.” 

It’s the safest truth he can offer. Close enough to real to pass inspection

Eddie’s expression softens slightly. “Okay.”

A beat.

“Offer stands.”

Buck nods once. “Yeah.”
But they both know he won’t take it. 

The sun is setting by the time they roll back into the station at the end of shift. Another day logged. Another series of calls completed. Forms signed. Gear cleaned. No mistakes. No reprimands. No disasters. By every measurable standard, it’s a good shift. 

And yet it feels like he’s skimming the surface of it. Like he completed the tasks but never fully arrived.

Buck changes out of his uniform in the locker room. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. He sits on the bench for a moment longer than necessary. Listening to the distant murmur of the others upstairs. To the hum of the building.

He presses his palms together between his knees and bows his head slightly. Just breathing. Making sure he’s solid. Present. That if someone called his name, he’d answer without delay. 

He thinks about Frank’s flat voice. Wouldn’t be the worst thing. 

He thinks about the way the pen looked in his hand. 

Choice. 

He didn’t have that option. The lightning struck. His heart stopped. And other people decided he was staying. He doesn’t know what to do with the weight of that.

He stands. Closes his locker. The metal door clangs softly. On his way out, Hen claps a hand briefly on his shoulder. “Proud of you,” she says simply.

He smiles. “Thanks.” 

He means it. He appreciates it. But it doesn’t settle anything. 

Pride feels like something he should earn. Not something handed back to him for surviving.

Outside, the sky is streaked pink and orange. The city alive and loud. Buck walks to his Jeep. Unlocks it. Sliders into the driver’s seat. He sits there for a moment before starting the engine. 

The seatbelt ersts heavy across his chest. His pulse is steady under it. Alive. Here. The word feels abstract. 

Everything in order. Everything functioning. Everything exactly the way it’s supposed to be. And yet nothing feels at peace. 

He starts the car. Drives home. The hollow feeling riding quietly in the passenger seat beside him. He doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t acknowledge it. But it stays with him all the way home. 

The loft feels different at night. Not quieter - it’s never fully quiet - but thinner somehow. Like the air has been stretched too far. Like one sharp sound could tear it. Like something invisible is holding everything together and he doesn’t entirely trust it.

Buck doesn’t turn on many lights when he gets home. He drops his key into the bowl. Same metallic click as always. Same echo across open space. The sameness should be comforting. Proof that the world is intact. Instead it feels rehearsed - like he’s stepping back into a set built to look like his life.

He toes off his boots near the stairs and walks straight through to the balcony doors, sliding them open.

The night air rolls in - cool and carrying the low hum of the city. He steps outside. Leans his forearms against the railings. 

Los Angeles stretches out in front of him in a scatter of lights - apartment windows, streetlamps, headlights threading through traffic like veins of white and red. The city’s pulse. Constant. Reliable. It doesn’t miss a beat.

Somewhere below, a siren wails briefly. Not theirs. Not his. Just someone else’s emergency. The sound fades. He watches the city breathe. He used to love this view. Still does, maybe. 

He used to stand out here after long shifts and feel wired in the best way - adrenaline settling, pride humming low in his chest. He’d look at all the lights and think: we help keep this going.

It made him feel like he was part of something bigger. Like all those lights meant life happening everywhere at once - people laughing, arguing, eating dinner, watching bad TV.

Connection.

Now it feels distant.  

He stands there long enough that the cool air seeps through his shirt. His shoulders are tight. He rolls them once, trying to shake it off. The tension resettles immediately. It’s not physical, not really. His body is just the easiest place for it to live. 

Across the street, a flicker catches his eye. Third floor apartment. The overhead light sputters briefly before stabilising. It’s subtle. Quick. But he notices.

He stares longer than necessary. Something about it feels familiar. Working. But not right. Functioning. But unstable.

Like a heart that restarted but never quite found its old rhythm. Like something jump started that might stall again without warning.

He exhales slowly. “Get a grip,” he mutters to himself.

The words disappear into the night air. 

He pushes off the railing and goes back inside, sliding the door shut behind him.

The loft feels warmer now. Closed in. he walks to the small dark by the window. The notebook is still there. Exactly where he left it. Waiting. No accusing. Just present.

For a second he considers ignoring it. Going upstairs. Trying to sleep again. But sleep hasn’t exactly been cooperative. So he sits. The chair creaks softly under his weight. Solid. Real. He presses his feet flat against the floor like he needs confirmation.

The previous torn page left a slight jagged edge near the spine. He runs his thumb over it absently. Blank page. Clean. He picks up the pen. Holds it loosely. Stares. He hald expected nothing to come. For his mind to stay blank the way it sometimes does when people ask if he’s okay.

His mind doesn’t feel chaotic. It feels heavy. Like a storm cloud that hasn’t decided whether it's going to break. Pressure without release. Static without thunder.

The clock downstairs ticks. He doesn’t look at it this time. He presses the pen to paper. The ink spreads slightly before he starts moving. He doesn’t overthink it. Doesn’t draft. Doesn’t outline. He just writes. Wouldn’t be the worst thing. It was out of my control. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel real. I don’t know why I’m still here. Luck runs out.

The words sit there in his own handwriting, smaller than they feel inside his head. Contained. Manageable. Almost clinical.

And in the middle. One sentence. Small. Something has to change. He reads it once. Doesn’t tear it out. Doesn’t crumple it. Just stares. The words look almost harmless. Not dramatic. Not final. Just…honest. 

Honesty feel different than panic. Quieter. Less explosive. It doesn’t demand action. It just refuses to be ignored.

He leans back in the chair. The pen still in his hand. His chest feels tight again but not from panic - from acknowledgment. Like naming something gives it weight. He doesn’t know what the chage is. Doesn’t know what it would look like. 

He lets possibilities skim the surface of his mind without grabbing onto any of them. Because the feeling underneath isn’t about logistics. It’s about something deeper. Something misaligned. Like a joint slightly out of socket. Functional, technically. But every movement reminds you it’s wrong.

He closes the notebook gently. Doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t throw it away. Just leaves it there. Proof. Proof that he said it out loud, even if only to paper.

He stands and walks back to the balcony. Slides the door open again. The city hasn’t changed. Lights still glowing. Cars still moving. People still living. Across the street, the same apartment light flickers once more.

On. 

Off.

On again.

Buck watches it. Waits to see if it’ll fail completely. It doesn’t. It stabilises. But the flicker lingers in his mind. Functional. But unstable. Working. But not steady.

No one looking at the window would think anything was wrong. Not unless they caught it at the exactly the right second. 

A breeze pushes against him, cool against his face. He rests his hands on the railing again. The same posture as before. The same view. But something is different now. Not hope. Not resolution. Just awareness. The feeling has shape now. A sentence. 

Something has to change. 

Below him, traffic flows through the intersection in a steady rhythm. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. 

The crossing signal shifts from green to red and back again in the distance.

Cycle repeating. Predictable. 

He used to find comfort in that predictability. Now it feels like a loop he’s stuck inside.

Buck inhales deeply. Holds it. Lets it out slowly. 

He doesn’t know yet that this is the beginning. Doesn't recognise this quiet restlessness as the first domino. All he knows is that standing still like this - functioning but flickering - isn’t sustainable. He can feel it the way he feels structural weakness in a burning building - not collapsed yet. But stressed.

The apartment light across the street steadies fully now. No flicker. No warning. Just a soft, constant glow. Buck watches it for another long moment. Then he turns and goes back inside. The balcony door slides shut with a soft click. The city hum continues outside. Inside, the clock keeps ticking. And on the desk, the notebook sits closed - one line heavier than the rest. 

Something has to change.