Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Texas. Buck had never thought he’d set foot in the Lone Star State. Not in this lifetime, maybe not in any. The closest he'd ever come to Texas was through a book he’d read once, sometime in high school — he couldn’t even remember what it had been about. Cowboys maybe? Horses? Guns? All he recalled now was the vague smell of old paper and disinterest. That was how much Texas had meant to him: a half-remembered paperback and a stereotype built from barbecue, big hats, and homophobia.

And yet, here he was.

Three long, dusty, sun-drenched months in the middle of nowhere — courtesy of Bobby Nash, Captain, mentor, and now apparently, life coach and part-time punishment dealer. A three-month "training academy" that looked a hell of a lot more like some kind of boot camp for overgrown boy scouts with anger management issues. Buck knew why he was here. He'd pushed the line — maybe leapt over it, arms flailing — and now this was his penance. Lay low, behave, and in 84 grueling days he could return to the 118, resume the life he actually cared about. Or screw up once, just once, and he’d be out of a job and possibly out of a future.

He could do this. He would do this. He had to.

The camp was buzzing like a kicked anthill. Rows of beige tents stood under the brutal Texas sun, some half-collapsing, some standing too stiffly, like they were trying to impress a sergeant. Each tent was numbered in thick black digits, and inside them — as Buck would soon discover — lay the essence of shared discomfort.

His phone buzzed. Maddie. Again.

“Let me know if you got there okay.”

He stared at the text for a moment. She was always worrying, and he was always pretending she didn’t need to. A cycle of sibling concern and stubborn detachment that neither of them quite knew how to break. He shoved the phone into his pocket, unread messages and all, and tried to focus on not looking completely lost.

“Name?”

A voice — stern, clipped — cut through the noise. Buck turned to find himself face to face with what looked like a walking army recruitment poster. The man had short-cropped brown hair, eyes like polished mahogany, and a uniform that fit him like it had been tailored to intimidate. He held a clipboard like it contained state secrets.

“Buck– Buckley. Evan Buckley. You can, uh, call me Buck.”
Why the hell was he stammering?

The man’s lips twitched, just barely, like a smile tried to form but got ordered back into line. “Alright, Buck Buckley. You’re in tent twelve. Dinner’s at eight. Don’t be late.”

And just like that, he was gone, swallowed up by the moving bodies and the dust in the air.

“Where the hell is tent twelve?” Buck called after him, but his voice drowned in the cacophony of barking orders, stomping boots, and distant country rock playing from someone’s hidden speaker. Fine. He’d figure it out.

He’d decided the man looked like a Jake. Solid jaw. Serious face. Definitely a Jake. Not that it mattered — Buck would probably never see him again.

As it turned out, finding tent twelve was easy. A giant black "12" hung above it in peeling wooden letters, like a sad welcome sign. Buck pushed aside the faded yellow tarp at the entrance and stepped inside.

The first thing that hit him was the smell: sweat, testosterone, and the lingering scent of whatever detergent hadn’t quite masked either. Not exactly offensive, but not inviting either — like a locker room that hadn’t figured out its identity.

Eight cots in a row. Seven of them already taken.

The last one — tucked in the far corner, beneath a questionable patch of something that looked suspiciously like mold (or possibly an omen) — was the only one left. Buck sighed. Audibly. Life had a way of placing him in the back corner, next to existential spores.

He dragged his suitcase toward it. As he moved, heads turned. Seven young men, all cut from variations of the same vaguely masculine cloth, looked up from unpacking, stretching, or comparing scars.

Three of them — yes, three — introduced themselves as Brad. No joke. Brad #1, Brad #2, and Brad #3. Buck didn’t even catch the rest of their names, partly because he was too distracted trying to figure out if this was some elaborate prank, or if all Brads were born in litters.

Two of the Brads and another guy — brown hair, cleft chin, probably someone’s future Republican congressman — all had tiny framed photos of identically smiling girlfriends on the shelves above their cots. The kind of girls who wore pearl earrings to brunch and said things like “babe, don’t forget leg day.” The others had medals, military ribbons, trophies — badges of effort, honor, or maybe just proof that they’d always had something to prove.

A loud gong echoed across the camp, like something out of a dystopian novel. Everyone started to move.

“What’s going on?” Buck asked, turning to Brad #2 — he seemed the least likely to report him.

“Dinner,” Brad #2 replied, like it was obvious, which it probably was.

Buck exhaled slowly.

Three months.
Not quite. Eighty-four days.
Then he’d be on a plane back to Los Angeles, and hopefully never have to hear the word “disciplinary” again.

__

Dinner was loud.
Loud in the way only rooms full of forced camaraderie and fluorescent lighting could be. The air vibrated with overlapping conversations, the clatter of plastic trays against metal tables, and the occasional bark of someone trying to be in charge. Buck stood in line, surrounded by people who, supposedly, were just like him — firefighters, police officers, first responders of some kind — but if he was being honest, it didn’t feel like that.

Some of them looked like they’d never run toward danger in their lives — more like they had just stumbled out of a frat house or wandered into the wrong summer camp. Others looked too hardened, too closed off — like this was their last shot and they knew it. Buck had a hard time believing they were all from the same cloth. But then again, as Hen always said: “Don’t judge a book by its cover, Buck.”

Hen should be here.
God, Hen would know what to do. She’d roll her eyes at the chaos, find the one table that made the most sense, sit down like she owned the place, and make three friends before the food even got cold. But of course, having a wife and a kid excused you from this boot camp nightmare, apparently. Life wasn’t fair — but Buck already knew that.

He stepped forward in line.

A ladle of something brown and ambiguous landed on his tray with a wet plop. It jiggled slightly, steaming and vaguely threatening. Buck stared at it. It looked more like something out of a prison documentary than anything fit for human consumption.

83 days, 23 hours, and 24 minutes.
That’s what he had left. He was counting already.
And when that time ran out — if he made it that far — he’d be absolved, forgiven, reborn. Bobby would welcome him back with a nod and a pat on the shoulder. No more lectures. No more disappointment in his voice. No more “You’re not thinking straight, Buck.”
Of course, Bobby hadn’t technically fired him. Not yet. But Buck knew that if he bailed on this camp early, the deal was off. The axe would fall. And he'd have nothing left to fight for.

He found an empty table in the far corner of the cafeteria — the kind of corner where people went to disappear — and sat down. The bench creaked under him. From here, he had a full view of the room. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, too bright, too sterile. The walls were painted some institutional shade of beige, like hope had been sandblasted out of the building years ago.

He poked at the brown blob on his tray with his fork.
It smelled… decent? Maybe even okay? Buck cautiously lifted a forkful to his mouth and tasted it. Huh. Not bad. Not good, either, but definitely better than it looked — which wasn’t saying much.

As he chewed, he scanned the cafeteria like it was a nature documentary. There were groups. Always groups.

One table was packed with muscle.
The Protein Posse.
These were the guys who had brought duffel bags full of pre-workout and whey powder, who measured their macros and probably dreamed in sets and reps. Their shirts clung to their bodies like a second skin, and their laughter was too loud, too performative. Buck liked fitness, sure — it was a job requirement — but protein bars were where he drew the line. That was definitely not his table.

Another group sat with a kind of quiet resignation.
Their body language gave them away — slumped shoulders, eyes that didn’t quite meet others. The second-chancers. Maybe even third or fourth. People who had washed out of the academy before and were now clawing their way back in. There was something heavy in the air around them. Regret, maybe. Or desperation. Buck didn’t want to sit there either — not because he judged them, but because he wasn’t ready to feel like that yet.

And then there was the last group.
A scattering of misfits, loners, people who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. One guy was reading a book at the table. Another was just staring into his mashed potatoes like they might give him answers. A few looked angry, a few looked lost, and none of them looked especially friendly.

That might be his group.
Or maybe — maybe not.
Maybe Buck didn’t belong in any group right now.

He let out a long breath and sat back. The hum of the room filled his ears. Somewhere across the cafeteria, someone laughed a little too loudly, and someone else swore under their breath. Plates clattered. Voices rose and fell. It was chaos, controlled only by the knowledge that someone higher up was watching — always watching.

Buck took another bite of the mystery meal and made a decision.
Maybe he’d just be a lone wolf.
At least for now.
No group. No attachments. No risks.

Just 84 more days.

__

Maddie hadn’t exactly been thrilled when Buck told her he was going to Texas.
In fact, she had given him that look — the one that walked the delicate line between exhausted big sister and overqualified therapist. But in the end, it hadn’t been important enough to argue about. She had just had her first daughter — a tiny pink-fisted miracle who had already stolen every ounce of Maddie’s sleep, patience, and emotional bandwidth. Buck was just one more chaotic chapter in the book of her life that she didn’t have time to reread right now.

And to be fair, it hadn’t even been that dramatic.
Sure, technically, he and Hen had broken into a fire station in the middle of the night.
And yes, they may have been more than a little drunk. But come on — it wasn’t like they had trashed the place. They hadn’t even touched anything. Except maybe the pole. Okay, and the intercom. And Buck had accidentally turned on the radio and announced, to the entire emergency network, that “Captain Hotpants reporting for duty.”

In his defense, it had been Hen’s idea.
Well, half her idea. She’d dared him to do it, and Buck had never been great at ignoring dares — especially when they involved fire poles, radio static, and proving he still had a sense of humor.

Only he had gotten caught.
Because Hen, his partner in crime, had bolted the second the headlights of a real fire truck lit up the station like a scene from a low-budget action movie.
She hadn’t even looked back. Just turned and vanished into the night like a teenager hopping a fence at a pool party.
And Buck?
He had stood there, mouth open, brain fuzzed with tequila, holding a fireman’s helmet and blinking into the light like a deer caught doing something really dumb.

So here he was.
At firefighter summer camp.
Three months of discipline, drills, and bunk beds. A punishment tailor-made to make him rethink every single decision he’d made since learning how to light a match. If Buck had known this place existed, he might’ve started a petition years ago. Or at least built a website titled "Absolutely Not: Why Adult Summer Camps Should Be Illegal."

Now he was lying on a cot that had clearly been designed by someone who hated the concept of comfort. The springs beneath the thin mattress dug into his back with the precise malice of someone filing a grudge. He shifted. It squeaked. He shifted again. It squeaked louder, like a small dying animal.

His pillow was more symbolic than functional.
The blanket smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant and the ghosts of failed recruits past. And to top it all off, directly above his head, was a mold stain the size of Ohio, creeping ominously across the canvas like it was plotting something.

Perfect.

Brad #3 was snoring like a chainsaw with a sinus infection.
Somewhere to the left, another guy was talking in his sleep.
Not whispering, talking.
Clear, complete sentences like, “Turn the hose, Jerry!” and “That’s my turn on the pole!”
It was like trying to sleep in the middle of a low-budget improv show with terrible acoustics.

Buck stared at the stain.
And kept staring.
He imagined it growing through the night, tendrils reaching downward like sentient mildew, claiming him as its own. He wouldn’t even fight it. He’d just let the mold take him. Absorb him. Become one with the tent.

God, what was he doing here?
His entire body ached with regret, his brain wouldn’t shut off, and he missed his apartment, his bed, his team — even Chim’s terrible jokes and the way Bobby raised his eyebrows when Buck said something dumb but well-meaning.

He wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep.
But instead, he lay there with every sense over-stimulated, his thoughts running in circles, while Brad snored and someone else moaned something about “emotional oxygen masks.”

And all Buck could do — really, truly do — was lie there, wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling stain and whisper to himself:

“Only 83 more days.”

__

When the first pale rays of sunlight slid across the top seam of the tent, painting soft gold onto the canvas like a gentle reminder from the universe, Buck decided he’d had enough. He hadn’t really slept — not deeply. Not the kind of sleep that wrapped around you like a blanket and pulled you under. It had been the restless kind, the kind that left your body sore and your mind buzzing like a faulty smoke alarm.

He remembered the snoring.
Oh, he remembered the snoring — Brad #3 had practically vibrated the tent with each breath. And then, just before dawn, silence. Sudden and eerie. Maybe he’d stopped breathing. Maybe Buck should’ve checked.
But honestly? He’d been too busy fantasizing about tearing his pillow in half and shoving it over Brad’s face. So. You know. Choices.

Still — it didn’t matter how little sleep he’d gotten. He was Buck. He had energy in his bones, like a fire that refused to go out. So he peeled himself from the cot like human velcro, slipped into his workout clothes in practiced silence, and snuck out of the tent like a thief in the dawn.

The air outside was thick with dew and heat already gathering in the ground, the kind of sticky, anticipatory warmth that promised a sweltering day ahead.
He stretched his arms to the sky, breathed deep, and let his feet carry him forward — not toward anywhere specific. Just away. Away from the tent. Away from the camp. Away from the mold spot and the noise and the fact that this was now his life for the foreseeable future.

There wasn’t much around the camp.
Just fields. Endless, sprawling fields, like a golden ocean broken only by the occasional tree or fencepost. In the far-off distance, like something painted onto the edge of a dream, there was a small farmhouse — red-roofed, white-trimmed, and sleepy-looking. Buck didn’t aim for it. He just let his feet fall in rhythm, pounding the dirt path like the beat of a drum, his breath syncing to the movement.

He ran toward the rising sun, its golden light climbing higher, painting the landscape in fire. The air smelled like dry grass, distant cattle, and the sharp mineral bite of dust. Texas, he thought, was unapologetically itself.

After a while, he reached a narrow stream that curled through the earth like a forgotten ribbon. It looked out of place here — like something pulled from a children’s book. Clear water, smooth stones, soft bubbling sounds that felt too delicate for the hardened land around it.

And there — a little further up — was a bridge. If you could call it that.
It sagged in the middle like it had long since given up. The wooden slats looked like they’d been stapled together by someone without a concept of structural integrity. It was picturesque in a haunted kind of way, like the kind of bridge people fell through in horror movies — right after the ominous music started.

Still, Buck was Buck. He wasn’t going to let a little tetanus risk stop him from exploring.

He took a step forward.

“I wouldn’t cross that if I were you.”

The voice came from nowhere. Deep, warm, and too close.
Buck jumped so hard he nearly launched himself into the stream like an over-caffeinated goat. His heel slipped on the dirt and for a heartbeat he felt the world tilt — the sun, the sky, the bridge blurring — and then a hand shot out and grabbed him. Firm. Unshakable.

Fingers wrapped around his bicep like steel cable, steadying him with casual ease.

When Buck looked up, his heart immediately betrayed him.

It was him.
The guy from check-in. The military man with the unreadable face and clipboard and slightly terrifying energy.
Only now — he wasn’t wearing the uniform.

Now he was wearing a red-and-blue checkered flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow.
Jeans. Broken-in, working jeans.
And boots. Not army-issued ones — real ones, cowboy boots.
And perched on his head like it had been there all his life was a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, tilted just slightly forward, shadowing his eyes in a way that made him look like he belonged on a movie poster.

He looked like a damn cowboy. Not the costume kind. The real kind.

“Buck Buckley?” he asked, his accent deeper now, rougher around the edges like morning gravel. “What are you doin’ all the way out here?”

Buck had to mentally slap himself. Snap out of it, Buckley.
Words. Use your words.

“I was, uh… out for a run. Sir.”
The ‘sir’ slipped out automatically. Was he still a ‘sir’ without the uniform?
The man didn’t correct him, just nodded toward the bridge. “Don’t cross that thing. It’s more for show than use. Shouldn’t really even be standin’ on it. You got that?”

“Got it,” Buck said, maybe too quickly. His mouth felt weirdly dry.

The man shifted on his feet, then glanced at a battered silver watch that peeked out from under his cuff. “You oughta get back to camp. Morning muster’s comin’ up fast.”

Buck nodded. Again. Because apparently he’d forgotten how to speak like a normal person.
The man gave a brief, almost shy smile — all mouth, no teeth — then turned and walked off toward the distant farmhouse, his boots crunching in the dry grass.

Buck stood there for a long moment, unmoving.
He still didn’t know the guy’s name.
But what he did know, without a shadow of a doubt, was that those cheekbones? They should be illegal.
They didn’t even look real.
No one’s face should be allowed to be that symmetrical and wear a cowboy hat.

__

The morning assembly was every bit the over-the-top cliché Buck had expected from a military-style adult reform camp. Rows upon rows of men in matching navy-blue polos and athletic shorts stood at attention beneath the already unforgiving Texas sun. The crest stitched into their shirts — some vaguely noble-looking eagle with a torch — tried its best to look official, but Buck couldn’t help thinking it looked like something someone’s uncle had designed in Microsoft Paint back in ’98.

Still, the formation was tight. Sharp.
Too sharp for seven in the morning.

First came roll call — each name barked into the silence like a cannon shot. Then, the day’s schedule was read out with the solemnity of a court sentence. Buck was in Group C, along with two of the Brads (he still wasn’t entirely sure which ones) and Sleep-Talker, whose actual name was apparently Owen. Buck had decided he wasn’t going to call him that. Some names just stick.

Their first assignment?
Cleaning duty. Specifically, the entire cafeteria.

It felt like a punishment — and Buck would’ve argued that he hadn’t even had a chance to mess anything up yet. But as it turned out, everyone got stuck on cafeteria rotation at some point.
A kind of institutionalized suffering, he figured.

The cafeteria wasn’t even that dirty, probably because of the daily rotations. But still, they weren’t allowed to talk during the task — a rule Buck immediately filed under “dumb and unnecessary.” Not that it stopped him from sneaking a glance out the window every other minute.

And there he was.

Mr. Cowboy-turned-Soldier, striding past the building with military precision, uniform crisp and perfectly fitted. The hat was gone, but the confidence wasn’t. Even in profile, he looked like he belonged on the cover of a romance novel that took place in a barn and probably involved forbidden kisses behind hay bales.

Buck barely registered that his sponge had stopped moving until a sharp voice cut through the air.

“Buckley. Keep working.”

He snapped to attention and turned — the supervising officer was glaring at him.
Right. His name was printed across his back in white block letters. No anonymity here.
Buck offered the barest nod and bent back to his task, scrubbing with a little more force than necessary. Internally? Still watching that cowboy walk away in slow motion.

__

First aid training followed, and surprisingly, it didn’t suck.

The instructor was decent. The kind of guy who didn’t talk down to you, even when showing you how to keep a CPR dummy “alive.” Buck was paired with Brad #2, who turned out to be a firefighter from Nashville, sent here for very similar reasons. The guy was quieter than Buck, but competent, and didn’t seem like a total jerk — which was saying something in this camp.

It wasn’t exactly friendship at first compression, but it was close enough.

Afterward, they were given a rare luxury: free time.

Most guys hit the showers or collapsed into cots. Buck, ever the golden retriever in human form, went for another run. This time, though, he didn’t head toward the stream. Something in him — a strange tug, maybe curiosity, maybe something softer — turned him toward the farm.

__

The path was narrow and baked hard by the sun, the kind that cracked underfoot with each step. As Buck jogged, the world around him changed — from dusty training ground to something out of a storybook version of Texas. The air smelled of dry earth, hay, and something floral drifting from the orchard he hadn’t noticed before.

As he crested a small rise, the view opened up and stole the breath from his lungs.

There it was.
A red farmhouse, two stories tall with white shutters and a wraparound porch that looked like it had seen generations of rocking chairs and lemonade.
Two weathered barns stood behind it, each trimmed in the same white. A field of wheat or barley shimmered gold in the breeze, and a few lazy cows blinked at him from under a tree.
Near the house, a little playground stood — swings swaying slightly in the wind, the faint sound of a creaking chain carrying over the silence.

It was... perfect.

Peaceful. Warm.
Like the kind of place you didn’t just visit — you stayed.

Buck hesitated. He could turn back. He should turn back.
But then —

“Hey.”

He spun around.

A kid, maybe nine, stood a few feet away.
He was small, wiry, with dark hair that curled at the ends, and a gaze that was way too observant for his age. He leaned on a pair of crutches, one leg slightly bent behind him, but his stance was confident. Curious. Not shy.

“Hi,” Buck said carefully, his voice quieter here, like the farm demanded a softer volume.

“Did you run away from the training camp?” the boy asked bluntly.

Buck let out a low laugh, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, kid. Just… took a wrong turn trying to get back.”

The boy nodded like that made perfect sense. “You just gotta follow that path,” he said, pointing back the way Buck had come, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Buck gave a grateful nod. “Thanks.”

But the boy wasn’t done.

“I’d run away too if I were in that camp,” he added casually.

This time, Buck laughed for real — short, surprised, genuine. “Oh yeah? You know something I don’t?”

“My dad works there,” the kid said, like it wasn’t a big deal. “He says he’d rather be home with us than yelling at people who don’t listen.”

Buck raised an eyebrow. “Trainer, huh? Maybe I know him.”

The boy shrugged again. “I dunno. He wears a uniform. He always wears a cowboy hat when he’s not working.”

And there it was.
That stupid flutter in Buck’s stomach again.

Before he could ask more, a voice floated toward them from the house.
“Chris! Lunch is ready!”

“I’m coming, Sophie!” the boy shouted back. He turned back to Buck and grinned. “Hope you find your way. See you around!”

With that, he took off toward the house on his crutches — and damn, he was fast. Moved like the things were just extensions of his legs.

Near the porch, a woman stood — blonde hair tied back with a floral scarf, a soft cotton blouse, faded jeans, and the kind of smile that made you believe in good people again. She waved at Buck, just a small gesture of kindness, and he waved back, his throat tighter than it should’ve been.

He turned to jog back, feet light on the dirt, heart somehow heavier than when he’d arrived.

He wasn’t sure what it was.
Maybe the farm.
Maybe the kid.
Maybe the mention of his dad in a cowboy hat.

__

Lunch had about the same texture as breakfast — soft, vaguely damp, and suspiciously beige. Buck figured it probably tasted the same too, not that he cared anymore. His thoughts weren’t on the food. They were still miles away, back at the little red farmhouse, stuck on a blonde woman with a kind smile and a boy on crutches who moved like he didn’t even need them.

Sophie, the boy had called her.
So… not his mom, then?
Not that it mattered.
Not that Buck was thinking about it.
Much.

After lunch, they were marched off to a self-defense class — which made Buck roll his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of his head. He could understand police needing it. Soldiers, sure. But firefighters? What exactly were they supposed to defend themselves from — aggressive garden hoses?

Still, there he stood, lined up with two Brads, Sleep-Talker, and the rest of their ragtag group, waiting under the sweltering sun for whoever was going to teach them how to punch without embarrassing themselves.

“Attention!”

The voice cracked through the air like a whip. Everyone snapped to attention — Buck just about managed to bite back a groan — and then froze entirely when he saw who had spoken.

Oh no. No. No no no.

There he was.

Not-Jack-Goodlooking-Military-Cowboy.
Only now, he wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat or a checkered flannel. Now it was a tactical training outfit — fitted, all business — and somehow that made him look even more annoyingly attractive.

He stood confidently, hands on his hips, scanning the group. His voice was smooth and southern, with that drawl that made every word feel a little warmer than it had any right to be.

“Name’s Eddie Diaz. Y’all can just call me Diaz. I’ll be your fitness and defense instructor for the next three months.”

Buck blinked.
Diaz.
Okay, so now he had a name to go with the face and the cheekbones. Didn’t help much.

“We’re gonna start off easy today, folks. Light jog to loosen up, then I’ll walk you through some basic strikes ‘n’ defense techniques. You get through that without fallin’ apart, and you’re done for the day.”

With that, he turned and started walking away — but the group just stood there, unmoving, looking between each other like confused ducklings.

Diaz looked back over his shoulder with a crooked grin.

“Y’all plannin’ on movin’, or do I need to write you up for disobedience?”

That got them going. All at once, the group shuffled into motion, hurrying to follow him down the path.
All except Buck, who stood rooted for a second too long.

Diaz didn’t even turn his head.

“That includes you, Buck.”

And just like that, Buck started jogging.

Not Buckley.
Just Buck.

He wasn’t sure why that made something flutter in his chest, but it did. Maybe it was just the heat. Yeah. Probably the heat.

They followed the same trail Buck had taken that morning — past the dry fields, the gentle breeze stirring the grass, the sun already starting to bake the path beneath their feet. The silence was filled only with the sound of shoes crunching gravel and the rhythmic breath of half-fit men trying to keep pace.

Then, as they reached the bend near the stream, Buck suddenly heard a familiar voice beside him.

“Well, now… don’t this look familiar. Feelin’ a little nostalgic, Buck?”

He turned, startled to find Diaz jogging alongside him, an amused glint in his hazel eyes.

Buck raised an eyebrow, his breath even despite the heat. “Nostalgic? You mean for the time you scared me half to death and almost knocked me into a river?”

Diaz let out a short laugh, rich and lazy, like molasses over warm cornbread.

“Hell, son, that’s the wrong way of lookin’ at it. I saved your ass. You were one foot away from takin’ a bath in that creek — and lemme tell ya, that water’s colder than a Texas divorce.”

Buck couldn’t help but grin despite himself.

“Sure you didn’t just want an excuse to grab my arm?”

Diaz gave him a sideways look, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “If I’d wanted an excuse, Buck, I wouldn’ta needed one.”

That shut Buck up for a second — mostly because his brain short-circuited and he missed a step on the path. He caught himself quickly, playing it off with a cough, but Diaz noticed. Oh, he definitely noticed.

Buck cleared his throat and looked ahead, pretending the scenery was just that interesting.

“Didn’t realize fitness instructors came with one-liners,” he muttered.

Diaz shrugged, adjusting his pace without breaking rhythm.

“Just tryin’ to make it interestin’ for ya, city boy. Gotta keep your mind workin’ while your legs’re dyin’. Helps pass the time.”

The others were lagging behind now, and Buck wasn’t sure if that was because he’d sped up — or Diaz had slowed down. Either way, they were suddenly jogging side by side, just the two of them, the dusty road stretching out in front of them like something out of a western.

And damn it, if Buck didn’t like the way it felt.

By the time they made it back to the camp, the group was sweating, red-faced, and half-ready to collapse onto the dirt. The sun had risen higher, casting long, shimmering lines of heat through the air. A couple of the Brads were groaning dramatically, and Owen — Sleep-Talker — was bent over with his hands on his knees, wheezing like he'd just run a marathon.

Buck wasn’t even winded.

Diaz, of course, looked like he’d just taken a stroll. Calm. Composed. Not a single hair out of place under that damn cap.

“Alright, circle up on the mats,” he called out, voice carrying clear and low with that familiar Texan drawl.

They moved to the training area behind the tents — just some old foam mats laid out under a crooked tarp for shade. Diaz stood in the center, hands on his hips, like he owned the place. Honestly, Buck wouldn’t be surprised if he did.

“This ain’t about throwin’ wild punches like you’re in some dusty dive bar,” Diaz said, looking around the circle. “It’s about balance. Control. Y’all gotta learn where your center is — and where your opponent’s ain’t.”

Then his gaze landed square on Buck. Stayed there.

“Pair up.”

The Brads immediately gravitated toward each other like magnets. Owen hesitated and then teamed up with some guy from another group. Buck stood still, expecting to be told who to join.

Instead, Diaz stepped closer, clapped a warm hand on his shoulder.

“You’re with me, Buck.”

Buck felt something tense in his chest — not nerves exactly, but something.

Diaz stepped into the center again and nodded for Buck to follow. Buck did, trying not to feel like every pair of eyes was on him.

“First thing,” Diaz said, “don’t stand square. You ain’t a brick wall. Turn a little, make yourself a smaller target.”

Buck turned.

“Good. Hands up. Chin down. Don’t stiffen your shoulders, you’ll wear yourself out faster.”

Diaz reached out — slowly — and adjusted Buck’s stance. His hand settled on Buck’s elbow, firm and warm, fingers just a little rough. His touch lingered a second longer than it needed to. And then he looked up — right into Buck’s eyes.

Something passed between them.

Not an order. Not instruction.

Something quieter. Less explainable.

Buck’s breath caught.

He wasn’t sure why.

Diaz didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just looked. Like he was reading Buck in a way no one ever had before. Quiet, steady, like he was listening to something unspoken.

Then, just like that, he stepped back and that small moment vanished.

“Alright, cowboy,” Diaz said with a lopsided grin. “Try an’ knock me off balance.”

Buck blinked. “Wait, what?”

“C’mon now,” Diaz said with a chuckle, dropping into a loose stance. “Let’s see what L.A.’s got.”

Buck gave a breathy laugh and lunged, but Diaz stepped aside effortlessly, catching Buck’s arm and redirecting him with a move that felt frustratingly graceful.

“Not bad,” Diaz said, voice rich with amusement. “But you telegraph like a highway sign.”

Buck caught his balance and looked up. “You’re fast.”

Diaz smirked, tugging his cap down a little. “You ain’t slow, darlin’. Just green.”

Buck’s heart did a weird little thing at the word darlin’. He hoped to God no one else noticed.

They reset positions.

Another beat passed. Buck wasn’t sure what he was feeling — not really — but it settled into his gut like something warm and confusing. Diaz wasn’t looking at him like a trainer anymore. He was just… looking.

And for some reason, Buck couldn’t look away.

__

After training and a group dinner that tasted marginally better than lunch — though only just — Buck found himself back outside. The worst of the day’s heat had finally started to ease, casting the whole camp in a golden, quiet light. Most of the other recruits were lounging around or calling it a night, but Buck wasn’t done.

Something about the self-defense training earlier had lit a fuse in him. Maybe it was Diaz’s voice in his head, or that stupid little grin he wore whenever he knocked Buck off balance — literally and otherwise. Either way, Buck had made a silent vow: by the next session, he would land something on him. At the very least, he’d shake that cowboy’s balance.

He started with a short warm-up, breathing evenly as he ran laps around the empty training mat. Then he set up a worn punching bag in the corner and began working his fists into it with focused strikes. The rhythmic thump echoed softly in the quiet evening air.

“You’re thinkin’ too much.”

Buck flinched, mid-punch, turning his head toward the familiar voice behind him. Of course. Eddie Diaz.

He was not in uniform.

No, tonight, he wore his signature: that damn checkered flannel shirt, fitted jeans, those dusty boots — and yes, the cowboy hat. Like he’d just stepped off a ranch and wandered into a training montage.

Buck grunted. “Sir.”

Then he kept punching the bag, eyes forward, refusing to let his pulse betray him.

Eddie stepped closer, right into Buck’s line of fire — slipping casually between him and the bag.

“Buckley,” he drawled, folding his arms over his chest. “If you wanna learn somethin’, you’re gonna have to start listenin’ to my tips.”

Buck raised a brow. “Far as I remember, we’re not in training right now.”

Eddie tilted his head, lips twitching. “Little extra one-on-one never hurt nobody.”

Before Buck could answer, Eddie moved behind him. He was a little shorter, but that didn’t seem to matter. Not when his presence wrapped around Buck like heat off a bonfire. He gently placed a finger on Buck’s shoulder — firm, precise.

“You’re holdin’ way too much tension right here,” he said, tapping Buck’s shoulder blade lightly. “That punch oughta come from your core. From the gut, not the shoulders. You wanna throw power, not just noise.”

He stepped around Buck slowly, eyes scanning him like he was a living diagram. His voice stayed low, smooth like warm honey.

“Feet shoulder-width. Hips a little looser. You ain’t a block of wood, Buckley — you gotta move.”

Buck rolled his eyes, but followed the directions.

“Alright, then,” Eddie said, stepping back, motioning to the bag. “Let’s see you try again.”

Buck exhaled sharply, repositioned himself, and punched.

And, damn it — it did feel better. The hit landed cleaner, heavier. He didn’t show it on his face, but something shifted in his chest.

Eddie grinned.

“There ya go. See? Told ya.”

He stepped in closer again, just enough that Buck felt the heat off his breath near his ear. His voice dropped just a bit lower.

“A little private lesson never did anybody wrong.”

Buck froze.

Eddie lingered for half a beat longer, then stepped back — slow and deliberate — like he hadn’t just set Buck’s nerves on fire.

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the edge of the camp. Buck’s eyes followed him on instinct, and that’s when he noticed: he wasn’t heading toward the instructor tents. No — he was walking off in the direction of the little red farmhouse.

The farmhouse.

“See ya tomorrow, Buckley.”

He didn’t even turn around when he said it — just tossed the words over his shoulder with that effortless confidence.

Buck stood there, too stunned to respond. His fists still clenched, the bag still swinging in front of him, and his brain running about three laps behind his body.

What the hell was that?

Chapter Text

The days all started to blur together after that.

Each one began the same: Buck waking up before the sun, lacing up his shoes and heading out on an early jog — always in the vague, mostly irrational hope of running into Cowboy-Eddie again along the trail or near the stream. But the man was nowhere to be found. Maybe it had been a one-time thing. Maybe he wasn’t some mysterious ranch-hand moonlighting as a firefighter trainer. Maybe Buck had imagined the whole damn thing.

After the run came the routine: chores, drills, meals that all tasted suspiciously like cardboard in different shades of beige. And, of course, the combat training sessions — where Buck found himself watching way more closely than was probably appropriate.

Eddie — or rather, Trainer Díaz — didn’t even seem to notice.

Or worse... he did, and was just pretending not to.

He stood in front of their group like nothing had ever happened, like he hadn’t leaned in close that night at the punching bag and said things that made Buck's heart skip. He gave instructions in that same slow, steady Texan drawl that could make a laundry list sound like gospel, but not once did he look at Buck the way he had before.

If Buck was lucky, he’d get a passing glance. Maybe a nod.

But for the most part, Eddie was cool, composed, and maddeningly professional.

“Buckley, keep it up,” he’d say without so much as a flicker of eye contact — before moving on to correct Brad #2’s stance or adjust Owen’s footwork.

Those were the only words Eddie spoke directly to him for three entire days.

And somehow... that bothered Buck more than he wanted to admit.

He didn’t need special attention. He wasn’t craving it. It wasn’t like anything had happened. There hadn’t been a moment, not really. Just... proximity. Heat. A look.

But still, it nagged at him.

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid.

But every time he heard that damn voice — that low Southern rumble laced with just the faintest bit of teasing — aimed at anyone but him, Buck’s stomach twisted.

And when Eddie gave that slow, crooked smile to someone else, Buck felt himself tense, like he’d missed a step in his own rhythm.

It was infuriating.

Because Eddie Díaz was just a trainer. Just another cog in this weird adult summer camp nightmare.

And Buck?

Buck was just a guy trying not to care that a cowboy wasn’t looking at him anymore.

__

Sunday was their one day off. The whole day. Free time from sunrise to sundown.

Which sounded great in theory — except there was absolutely nothing to do within a hundred-mile radius. No town, no Wi-Fi, no civilization. Just dry grass, dirt roads, and the occasional cow.

So Buck did the only thing he could think of to keep himself from going stir-crazy: he ran.

He ran past the stream, deeper than he’d ever gone before, letting his legs eat up the earth beneath him, letting the miles blur together until his brain finally — finally — went quiet.

It felt good. His body loosened, muscles warm and relaxed. He barely noticed when the trail turned into woods. The ground became uneven, but he didn’t care. He kept going.

That was his mistake.

Because the next thing he knew, his foot slammed down on a tree root hidden beneath the leaves, and his ankle twisted hard to the side. Buck let out a strangled yelp as the ground rose up to meet him, pain shooting up his leg like fire.

He didn’t scream — though he wanted to. God, did he want to.

Instead, he gritted his teeth and rolled over, breathing hard, clutching his ankle. It throbbed, hot and sharp.

“Well, great,” he muttered. “Perfect.”

Slowly — very slowly — he tried to stand. It hurt like hell if he put weight on it, but he could hobble if he kept most of the pressure off. He found a decent-sized stick nearby, something sturdy enough to use as a makeshift crutch, and started limping in the direction of the only place he could see through the trees.

That red farmhouse.

The one from his run.

The one where—

“You get lost again, sir?”

The voice startled him before the kid appeared — and Buck couldn’t help it, he grinned when he saw him.

Chris.

“Not this time,” Buck said, managing a weak laugh through the pain. “I took a nasty step off the trail. Twisted my ankle pretty bad. Think your mom could help me out?”

He tried to sound casual, like he hadn’t worded it that way just to ask if she was, in fact, his mom.

Chris didn’t notice. He just nodded quickly, like Buck had asked him something important.

“I’ll go get her!”

And just like that, the kid disappeared through the trees — only to return two minutes later, walking alongside a familiar figure.

Sophie.

The blonde woman from the porch. Hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, a kindness in her eyes that somehow made Buck’s chest ache.

“Oh no,” she said the moment she saw him, concern flashing across her face. “Are you alright?”

Buck gave her a crooked smile, trying not to look as miserable as he felt, and motioned awkwardly toward his foot.

“Depends on your definition of alright. I was hoping maybe you could help me out.”

She crouched beside him, taking a quick but careful look at the swollen ankle. She didn’t wince or panic, just nodded like she knew exactly what to do.

“Of course,” she said softly. “Looks like a bad sprain, but nothing’s broken from the looks of it. I’m Sophie, by the way.”

“Buck,” he replied, grateful — and trying not to stare at her too long. “And yeah, I’m from the camp. Sorry to just… show up like this.”

She smiled again, that same calm, angelic way that made everything feel a little less awful.

“Well, Buck, it’s lucky you found us,” she said, easing her arm under his to help him shift his weight. “We’ll get you fixed up. And when my fiancé gets home, he’ll take a look too. He works over at the camp.”

Buck blinked.

Fiancé?

Sophie didn’t seem to notice his expression change. She was already guiding him gently toward the porch, Chris skipping ahead like this was some kind of adventure.

Buck let himself lean on her a little more.

He didn’t say a word. But something inside him sank — just a little — like the wind had gone out of him.

__

Sophie had rubbed some cooling ointment onto his ankle, wrapped it up nice and tight, and made him promise not to walk on it for the rest of the day. Now Buck was sitting at the big wooden kitchen table, a mug of strong coffee in front of him and a deck of cards in his hand.

He and Chris were knee-deep in some ridiculous card game — the kind where every household seemed to have their own rules. But somehow they’d managed to meet in the middle, and Buck was actually enjoying himself. Chris was sharp, full of questions, and unrelentingly curious in the kind of way that made Buck forget how badly his ankle hurt.

The front door creaked open.

Buck froze mid-move, heart thudding in his chest as he glanced toward the sound — knowing exactly who it was, but still… hoping it wasn’t.

It was.

There, framed in the soft light spilling through the front door, stood Eddie.

Full-on cowboy again. Plaid shirt rolled at the sleeves, worn jeans, boots dusty from the road, and that damn hat sitting low on his head like he was born in it.

His eyes landed on Buck and stayed there. Confused, surprised… and something else Buck couldn’t quite name.

Sophie swept in like sunshine, smiling, and pressed a light kiss to Eddie’s cheek.

“We’ve got a visitor, hon,” she said brightly. “He hurt his ankle. Said he’s from the camp. Do you know him?”

Eddie didn’t answer her right away. He just kept lookin’ at Buck, like he was trying to piece something together.

Finally, he tilted his head, his voice low and unmistakably Southern.

“Well I’ll be... Buck Buckley. You stalkin’ me now, darlin’?”

Buck smirked without much warmth, raising his coffee cup like a toast.

“Sorry to disappoint, sir, but you’re just not that interesting.”

Chris let out a giggle from his seat and bounced slightly in his chair.

“He’s funny, Daddy! Can he stay for lunch? Pleeease? Sophie made meatloaf!”

Buck glanced over at Sophie, who was already pulling a dish from the oven, steam rising and the smell of something real and homemade filling the kitchen like a hug.

Eddie rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled softly.

“Well shoot,” he said with a slow grin, “sounds like I ain’t got much of a say in it.”

Then he looked back at Buck again, something still unreadable in his eyes — something that lingered just a little longer than it should’ve.

“Hope you’re hungry, Buckley. Sophie’s meatloaf’ll change your life.”

Lunch was... something else.

The meatloaf was exactly as good as Eddie promised — maybe even better. Buck hadn’t had a proper home-cooked meal in weeks, and Sophie? She cooked like someone who knew how to feed a small army with love and butter. Crispy roasted potatoes, sweet tea that could rot your teeth in a day, green beans cooked with bacon — the whole nine yards.

But as much as Buck tried to focus on the food, his eyes kept drifting across the table. And Eddie? Eddie wasn’t exactly making it easy to ignore him.

He sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, fork in one hand, glass of tea in the other — looking like a damn Marlboro ad. Every now and then, he’d glance at Buck with that same half-amused, half-suspicious look he wore during training, like he was sizing him up. Again.

“You eat like a man who ain’t seen a real meal in years,” Eddie drawled, smirking just slightly over the rim of his glass.

Buck swallowed a bite, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and shot him a smirk right back. “Well, sir, it’s hard to eat properly when someone’s busy running you into the dirt all day.”

Eddie chuckled low in his throat. “That what you call a warm-up, Buckley? Hate to see how you’d handle a real workout.”

Sophie, bless her, smiled like they were just exchanging friendly banter. “Eddie’s a tough coach,” she said lightly, passing Chris the gravy. “He’s strict because he cares.”

Buck raised a brow and looked back at Eddie. “So all that yelling is outta love?”

Eddie leaned back in his chair, gave Buck a once-over, and drawled, “Ain’t my fault if you can’t handle a little pressure. But if y’want, I can take it easy on you next time. Wouldn’t want you breakin’ another ankle.”

“Please,” Buck said, laughing, “I twisted it on a root. I didn’t sprain it because your workouts are too intense.”

“That what helps you sleep at night?”

“You wanna test that theory?”

The table went quiet for a half-second, just long enough for Chris to pause with a bite of meatloaf halfway to his mouth.

Eddie’s eyes narrowed — but he was grinning now. A slow, crooked grin that said he was enjoying this too damn much. “Careful, Buckley. I bite back.”

Buck met his gaze, refusing to look away. “Good. I’m not afraid of teeth.”

Sophie chuckled at them like this was all just boys being boys. “You two sound like you’re about to wrestle each other into the backyard.”

Eddie didn’t break eye contact. “Don’t tempt him.”

“Oh, I don’t wrestle,” Buck said smoothly. “I win.”

Chris whooped in delight, throwing his hands up. “This is better than TV!”

Eddie chuckled, finally looking away long enough to sip his tea. “You better enjoy your little victory speech, Buckley. Tomorrow, I’m gonna make sure you earn it.”

“You always talk that much during lunch?” Buck teased.

“Only when I’m bein’ challenged in my own damn house,” Eddie fired back with a wink.

Sophie just smiled like she had no idea what was going on.

And Buck? Buck didn’t know what the hell this was, either. It felt like a game, like a warning, like an invitation — all tangled up together. But he knew one thing for sure:

He was absolutely not going to lose.

__
After lunch, Eddie disappeared somewhere out back, and Buck found himself shifting on the couch, glancing toward the window more than once. The knot in his stomach tightened with each passing minute — mostly because he still had no damn idea how he was getting back to the camp. Hobbling ten miles on a bum ankle wasn’t exactly in the cards.

But Sophie, sitting across from him in a rocking chair with a cup of sweet tea, looked completely at ease. And her calm was contagious.

“How’s your ankle doin’?” she asked gently as she came back in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

Buck tried for a smile. “Better. Not great, but… manageable. I still haven’t figured out how I’m getting back to the camp, but I’ll sort it out somehow.” He paused, then added, sincerely, “Thanks again. Really. For everything today.”

Sophie gave him that same soft, honey-warm smile that made Buck feel like he’d just stepped into a Norman Rockwell painting. She lowered herself to sit beside him on the couch. “Oh, don’t mention it. Wasn’t any trouble. And don’t worry about the camp — Eddie’ll figure somethin’ out, he always does. Man loves a mission.”

Buck let out a small chuckle, relaxing into the cushions.

“But now that you’re stuck here a little longer…” she said, nudging him with her shoulder, “why don’t you tell me somethin’ about yourself? We don’t get many new faces out here in the middle of nowhere.”

Buck exhaled through his nose. God, he hated this question. What was he supposed to say? That he had no idea what he was doing half the time? That he felt like a disaster with a uniform on?

Still, he gave her the basics — the short version. Told her about being a firefighter in LA, how he got “volunteered” for this boot camp thing after too many poor choices stacked up. He expected judgment.

Instead, Sophie burst out laughing — this full, warm laugh that made Buck blink in surprise. “That’s the dumbest reason I ever heard for getting sent to a camp full of cops and military boys.”

Buck laughed with her, shrugging helplessly. “Yeah, well… guilty.”

Before Sophie could ask more, the front door creaked open again, and Eddie walked in, brushing dust off his jeans like he’d just wrestled the Texas sun. “Alright,” he announced, eyes cutting straight to Buck, “ride’s here.”

Sophie helped Buck stand up, and the moment they stepped outside, Buck froze in his tracks.

Standing there in the golden light of late afternoon was a horse. A big one. Brown with a white streak down its nose and legs like tree trunks.

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me,” Buck muttered, staring up at the animal like it had come to end him. “With all due respect, sir — and I mean this in the nicest possible way — there is no way in hell you’re gettin’ me on that beast.”

He put a little too much emphasis on the word sir, and Eddie raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“You’ll be just fine,” Eddie drawled, already moving to the saddle. “She’s gentle as they come. Name’s Sunny. Chris named her himself. She likes soft voices and hates sudden movements — so y’know, try not to scream.”

Before Buck could protest again, Eddie reached out, wrapped both hands around his waist, and — with exactly zero effort — lifted him clean off the ground and set him on the saddle like he weighed nothing at all.

“Are you serious right now?” Buck muttered, gripping the horn of the saddle for dear life.

“Dead serious,” Eddie said, climbing up in front of him like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Now hold on tight, Buckley.”

“I hate this already.”

“You’ll live.”

With one last smile from Sophie and a cheerful wave from Chris, Eddie gave Sunny a gentle kick and the horse began moving forward — smooth and steady down the long dirt path back toward the woods.

Buck clung to the back of Eddie’s jacket, the heat of the man's body radiating through him with every bounce. His heart thumped in his ears, but not from fear anymore.

“Y’alright back there?” Eddie asked, glancing over his shoulder with a grin.

“I’m reconsidering all my life choices.”

“That’s just the horse talkin’. You’ll get used to her. Ain’t nothin’ more reliable in these parts than Sunny.”

“Except you?” Buck muttered before he could stop himself.

Eddie didn’t turn around this time. But Buck could feel the smirk in the air between them.

“Damn straight,” Eddie said. “And don’t you forget it.”

Buck had to fight hard not to panic, perched high up on the back of a horse that was way too alive for his liking. Every step Sunny took made him sway just a little — not enough to fall, but just enough to remind him how much higher the ground seemed from up here.

Still… after a while, the tension in his shoulders began to ease. The gentle rhythm of Sunny’s gait, the way the sun dipped low over the golden fields, the distant hum of cicadas — it all worked some strange kind of magic. He found himself… almost enjoying it.

Eddie kept the pace slow and steady, riding ahead but not too far. Sunny let out the occasional soft huff, like she had better things to do but was being patient about it.

After a few minutes of silence, Buck spoke up — trying to sound casual, even though the question itched at the back of his mind.
“I didn’t know you had a kid. Or a fiancée.”

Eddie didn’t look back, but Buck saw his shoulders lift in a shrug.
“Well… there’s a lotta things you don’t know ‘bout me. Just like I don’t know much about you.”

Buck didn’t know what to say to that at first. His fingers tightened slightly on the saddle.
“You could know things. If you wanted to.”

Eddie let out a short laugh. “That so? Alright then, fire away. What kinda deep, life-alterin’ secrets you got for me, Buckley?”

Buck thought for a second. “I have a sister. She just had a daughter. And really pissed at me for being all the way out here in Texas.”

Eddie barked out another laugh. “Well now… sisters’ll do that to you. I got two of ‘em myself.”

Buck grinned. “See? That’s another thing we’ve got in common.”

Now Eddie did glance back, just a little over his shoulder, brows raised. “Another thing? What else do you think we got in common, darlin’?”

Buck just shrugged, trying to hide the sudden spike in his pulse.
“Well… we’re both headin’ toward the same camp right now.”

Eddie let out a low, theatrical sigh. “Yeah, but I wouldn’t be headin’ back right now if you hadn’t been dumb enough to go twistin’ your ankle like some rookie city slicker chasin’ butterflies.”

“Touché,” Buck muttered, grinning in spite of himself.

The rest of the ride passed in silence — but not an uncomfortable one. More like the kind that hummed quietly with something unspoken, something waiting. Buck wasn’t sure if the knot in his chest came from nerves or… anticipation.

When they finally reached the edge of the camp, Eddie dismounted with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this his whole life. Then, without so much as a warning, he turned around, wrapped his arms around Buck’s waist, and lifted him off Sunny like he weighed nothing.

Buck's breath caught — not from the movement, but because for one moment, suspended in mid-air, his eyes locked with Eddie’s.

They were dark brown. Warm, unreadable, focused entirely on him. And even after his feet hit solid ground again, Buck couldn’t quite tear his gaze away.

Eddie didn’t either.

His eyes moved across Buck’s face slowly, unhurried — down to his mouth… and then back up. Like he was looking for something.

Then Eddie sighed, something heavy and hard to place behind it, and stepped back.
“Change out that bandage Sophie slapped on ya later tonight,” he said, voice lower now, a little rougher. “We’ll see how that ankle looks come mornin’.”

He gave Sunny a pat, swung back up onto the horse, and without waiting for a reply, started back toward the fading sun.

Buck stood there long after the sound of hoofbeats had faded, wondering what the hell just happened — and why it felt like something had just started.

__

Suddenly, Buck's phone buzzed, the sound sharp in the stillness of the night. He snatched it up quickly, not wanting to wake anyone. Maddie’s voice came through the line, low and serious.

“I mean it, Evan. Are you okay?”
Buck let out a quiet sigh.
“It’s really not that bad. I… rode a horse today. Can you believe that?”

There was a beat of silence before Maddie let out a soft laugh.
“Oh my god, what is Texas doing to you?”
Then her voice shifted, teasing but curious.
“Were you alone?”

Buck hesitated, then answered honestly.
“Nope. Eddie took me.”
He decided not to mention the twisted ankle or the fact that he’d been carried—twice.

Maddie’s response came instantly.
“Ohhh no… and who is this mysterious, possibly (very likely) hot Texan named Eddie?”

Buck groaned.
“Shut up, Maddie. It wasn’t like that and you know it. Go to sleep.”

She giggled.
“I love you, Buck. I’ll see you soon.”

Then the line went dead.

“See you soon…” Buck echoed quietly to himself, staring into the dark.
Yeah. In three months.
But something in his gut told him that sooner or later, he was going to need his sister here—with him—much sooner than that.

__

The next morning, Buck’s ankle was—surprisingly—doing a lot better. It was still a little swollen and tender, but the pain had dulled to a manageable throb, and he could walk without too much limping. Looked like Sophie’s mystery salve actually worked.

Breakfast had become something of a routine by now. He usually sat with Brad #2—who turned out to be a pretty decent guy—and a girl named Samantha, though everyone just called her Sam. They had fallen into an easy rhythm over scrambled eggs and weak camp coffee, and Buck had started to find a strange sort of peace in the repetition.

After breakfast, he helped sweep the courtyard, spent some time learning about arm anatomy in one of the practical skill classes, and reconvened with the others for lunch.

“Hey Buckley,” Sam said around a mouthful of bread. “You good? You’re limping kinda weird.”

Buck blinked, glancing down at his foot like he’d just remembered it existed.
“Oh. Yeah. Twisted my ankle yesterday. Nothing major.”

Sam nodded like that made perfect sense, then went right back to her sandwich without pressing further. He liked that about her—observant, but not nosy.

That afternoon, they had combat training again, and Buck found himself… oddly looking forward to it. Even if it was Military Eddie this time, not Cowboy Eddie. Even if there was no red barn or coffee or quiet moments with Chris. There was still something about seeing Eddie again that made his heart thump in ways it probably shouldn’t.

He was already waiting out on the training field when he spotted Eddie approaching from across the yard. Buck smiled and lifted a hand in casual greeting.
“Hey.”

But Eddie didn’t so much as glance in his direction.

Instead, he strode straight to the front of the group like Buck wasn’t even standing there and launched right into instruction—something about close-quarters weapon tactics and the importance of body positioning during a street fight.

Buck just stood there, his hand still half-raised.
Confused. A little cold. A little stupid.

For the rest of the training, Eddie didn’t look at him once. Didn’t call on him. Didn’t correct him. Didn’t even walk by him. It was like Buck had been erased from the man’s memory entirely.

The rest of the day passed the way most days did—dinner, followed by a stretch of free time. Buck didn’t quite trust his ankle enough to go jogging again, so instead he wandered out to the open training field. It was quiet now, the sun low and lazy over the Texas horizon, casting long shadows across the dirt and grass.

He made his way to the pull-up bar and started doing a slow set, feeling the strain in his shoulders and back, the rhythm helping settle his restless thoughts. After that, a few stretches, some push-ups, anything to work the energy out of his system.

“Well now, if it ain’t Mr. Limp-Along. Looks like that ankle’s doin’ just fine after all.”

The voice was unmistakable now. Buck didn’t even need to look.

But he did.
And there he was.
Cowboy Eddie, not Trainer Díaz. Hat in hand, that same frustratingly unreadable look on his face.

Buck wiped a bit of sweat from his brow and offered a shrug. “Your fiancée’s miracle goop really did the trick,” he said simply, trying to keep the sting out of his voice—sting that came not from the ankle, but from the fact that Eddie hadn’t asked about it even once until now.

Eddie gave a short nod, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans. “Yeah, she’s got a knack for that stuff. Swears by plants and oils and all kinds’a witchy magic. I let her go at me with it once, fixed my back in a day. Damn woman’s smarter than any doctor I ever met.”

Buck chuckled quietly and nodded. Then the silence crept in again—awkward, thick, sitting between them like a wall of unsaid things.

There was a question burning on Buck’s tongue, and he’d never been good at not asking what he really wanted to know.

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

Eddie’s shoulders rose in a quiet shrug of permission.

Buck hesitated only a second. “She’s your fiancée… but she’s not Chris’s mom, right?”

He knew immediately that the air shifted.

He watched it happen—the tension ripple through Eddie’s shoulders, the way his jaw clenched just slightly. But after a long breath, Eddie looked out over the empty training field and answered.

“Nah,” he said, voice low and even. “She ain’t. Chris’s mama passed a few years back. Car wreck. Real bad one.”

Buck swallowed hard. “Damn. I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, I just—”

Eddie cut him off gently. “Don’t go beatin’ yourself up, cowboy.”

He even smiled a little. That slow, quiet kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes but didn’t feel fake either.

Then he tipped his head toward the fading sky.

“I’ll see ya around.”

And just like that, he walked off again. Left Buck standing there in the dusk, ankle sore, confused, and wondering why this man had such an big impact of his little heart. And his dick (but that's just for the record).

__

It all seemed so simple now. That strange little rhythm they had fallen into, day after day. During training hours, Eddie barely looked at Buck. He addressed him the same as everyone else, voice clipped and professional, face unreadable beneath the brim of his hat. He'd correct stances, demonstrate techniques, and bark orders when necessary, never favoring, never even glancing twice.

But after dinner, when the sun started to slide beneath the horizon and the rest of the camp spread out to relax or retreat into bunks, Buck found his feet carrying him back to the training field. And almost always, Eddie was already there. Not in fatigues. Not with the straight back and harsh tone of Trainer Díaz. But as Cowboy Eddie, leaning against a fencepost with his hat tipped back and the faintest glint of something softer in his eyes.

The first time Buck showed up, he'd just intended to stretch out a bit. But Eddie had given him a look and drawled, "Well, since you’re here, might as well teach ya not to get your ass handed to ya in a back alley."

That night, they'd gone over simple stances. Footing. Balance. How not to flinch when someone feinted toward your face. And when Buck had joked, "So this is the real Texas hospitality, huh?" Eddie had actually cracked a grin.

"Only the special guests get punched in the gut for free," he'd said.

The second night was wrist locks. Eddie was precise, steady, and incredibly firm in how he taught. He guided Buck's hands, corrected his posture with a strong hand on his back or shoulder, and offered zero space for sloppiness.

"This ain't a dance, Buckley. You don’t gotta be pretty. You gotta be quick and make it hurt."

Buck had nodded, not reading anything into the fact that Eddie had just called him pretty, focused, only for Eddie to step into his space without warning and twist his arm behind his back in one smooth motion.

"Like that."

"Jesus, warn a guy."

"Ain’t nobody gonna give ya a heads up in a fight."

By the fifth night, the lessons had grown longer, more involved. Eddie even brought a pair of worn-out boxing gloves one evening. Buck had laughed outright at that.

"You carry those around just in case a city boy shows up and needs teachin'?"

Eddie gave him a slow smirk. "You ain't the first one needs knockin' into shape. But you might be the most dramatic about it."

They'd circled each other in the dirt under a bruised pink-and-orange sky, the only sounds the distant murmurs from the camp and the steady thud of gloved fists against forearms.

Eddie was careful. He never hit hard. But he didn’t let Buck slack either. If Buck dropped his guard, he got a firm tap to the ribs. If he stepped wrong, he got a sharp correction and a quick sweep that sent him on his ass more than once.

"Y'know," Buck had muttered one evening, brushing dirt off his back, "you're a lot meaner after sundown."

"Mean keeps ya alive, Buckley," Eddie said, offering him a hand. "But I'm bein' gentle. You'd know if I wasn't."

Buck grinned as Eddie hauled him to his feet. "Remind me not to piss you off for real."

Their conversations stretched longer too, between drills and demonstrations. One night, Buck asked, "Why do you do this? Stay here, run these programs, train people you don't even know?"

Eddie had paused, leaned against the fence again, and looked out toward the darkened field.

"Guess I like watchin' people figure out they’re tougher than they thought. Helps me remember I was too, once."

Buck nodded, not asking more. He didn’t have to.

Another night, Eddie asked, "What made ya leave LA for this dusty-ass place?"

Buck laughed dryly. "Needed to clear my head. Make sense of some things. Get away from others. And my Captain kind of forced me, actually."

"Ain't no better place for runnin' than Texas," Eddie said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Wide open and easy to get lost in."

They talked more about family too. About Maddie, about Chris. Buck mentioned Jee-Yun and how he loved being an uncle.

"I got two sisters," Eddie said one night as they both stretched, lying on the grass staring up at the star-blanketed sky. "Both louder'n hell. And meaner too. But good hearts."

"That sounds about right," Buck replied, smiling. "Maddie's loud as hell when she wants to be. Loves hard though."

And slowly, those evenings became something Buck looked forward to. It wasn't just the training. It was the quiet, the connection. The way Eddie would sometimes glance at him when he thought Buck wasn’t looking. Or the rare laugh Eddie let slip when Buck said something stupid. It was honest, warm laughter, the kind that came from the chest and curled around your ribs.

One night, Buck fumbled a block, missed the rhythm entirely, and they both went down in the dirt in a tangle of limbs.

Eddie just laughed, sprawled beside him, hat askew.

"You got the grace of a drunk baby deer, Buckley."

Buck wheezed, wiping sweat and dirt from his brow. "Says the guy who just got tackled by said deer."

They lay there a moment, catching their breath, chests rising and falling in sync. Then Eddie stood and offered Buck a hand up.

"One more round?"

"Hell yeah."

During that time, Buck learned a surprising amount about Eddie. A lot of it was small, almost silly stuff—like the fact that Eddie hated sweet potatoes and was severely allergic to bees. Random facts, the kind you only pick up when someone slowly lets their guard down. But there were other things, too. Things that sat heavier.

Like the quiet way Eddie mentioned he'd served overseas, years ago, before he ever took the job as a trainer out here in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t go into detail, not really. But Buck could feel it, like a weight in the air whenever Eddie’s voice dropped an octave or his eyes turned distant. It was in the way he went quiet around certain topics, in how he sometimes flinched at loud noises, or stared too long at nothing.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Eddie carried a lot with him. And Buck—he couldn’t explain it, not even to himself—but something about that made him want to know more. Not just the clean, easy parts. Not just the guy who quoted country songs under his breath and fixed broken gear like it was a religion. No, Buck wanted to understand the rest of it too. The shadows. The cracks. The whole damn iceberg floating beneath the surface of Eddie Díaz.

And maybe that was dangerous. But Buck had never been the kind of guy to walk away from a storm just because it might get messy.

That was how it went. Every night.

__

Buck hadn’t even realized it had been nearly two weeks since he’d arrived at the camp—time had slipped by in dusty days and long, quiet evenings. He was only reminded of the passing time when his phone buzzed to life with Bobby’s name flashing across the screen.

“Hey, Pops,” Buck answered, his voice lighter than he felt, trying for playful.

“Hey, kiddo,” Bobby replied, but something about his tone was off. Too flat. Too heavy.

Buck immediately sat up straighter, instincts kicking in. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

There was a pause. Then a deep, steadying breath on the other end.

“It’s May,” Bobby said quietly. “She was in a car accident. Some drunk ran a red light and T-boned her.”

Buck shot to his feet, pressing the phone harder to his ear as if that would bring him closer. “Oh my god. Is she okay? Is it bad? Should I come back?”

He had no idea what he could do from across the country, but he needed to say it—needed to offer something, anything.

“She’s banged up pretty bad. Still in the hospital. But she’s conscious. Talking. She asked for you.”

Buck’s heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest. “Can I talk to her?”

“Of course.” Bobby’s voice softened. “It’s good to hear from you, Buck. We all miss you. I miss you.”

Buck didn’t answer that. Couldn’t. Because it had been Bobby’s idea for him to leave in the first place—to clear his head, to get space. And even though Buck had agreed, it still stung.

Then another voice crackled through the line, tired but familiar. “Hey, Buck.”

“Maymay,” he breathed out, instantly flooded with emotion. “What the hell are you doing scaring us like that while I’m gone?”

“You’re not just gone a little while, Buck. You’ve been gone forever,” she said, her voice steady but teasing. “Game nights are totally lame without you. Harry and I have no shot against Mom and Bobby without our secret weapon.”

Buck let out a weak laugh. “Well, what can I say—I’m essential to the Grant-Nash family unit.”

He tried to keep it light, but her words hit harder than he expected.

“That’s the thing,” she continued, her tone suddenly more serious. “Since you left… it hasn’t felt the same. So stop messing around and come home soon, okay?”

He swallowed hard. “I will. I promise. But enough about me—how are you? Really?”

“It’s not that dramatic,” May said, trying to sound casual. “A couple broken bones, a concussion… but I’ll be good as new before you’re back. You’ll see.”

They talked a little while longer—Buck asking if she needed anything, May trying to downplay the whole situation. But eventually, their conversation drifted to a quiet end, and she handed the phone back to Bobby.

“We’ll keep you posted,” Bobby said. “Take care of yourself out there, alright?”

Buck nodded, even though Bobby couldn’t see him. “Yeah. You too.”

When the call ended, Buck stood there for a long moment, phone still clutched in his hand, staring out at the empty field. The training ground was quiet now. Shadows long. Everything suddenly felt a little heavier, a little more distant. And for the first time since he’d arrived, the Texas air didn’t feel like escape. It just felt like far away.

__

Buck couldn’t stop thinking. His head was a whirlwind—flashes of May in a hospital bed, Bobby’s tight voice, the guilt gnawing at the edges of his mind. So he did the only thing he knew how to do when the world spun too fast.

He moved.

Pull-ups until his arms trembled. Push-ups until his shoulders burned. Sit-ups. Burpees. Anything to drown the noise in his head. And when his body started to feel as frantic as his thoughts, he went for the punching bag—the heavy red one swinging under the lone floodlight by the edge of the training field. He hit it hard. Over and over. Fists slamming into leather, breath ragged, sweat pouring off him like rain.

Somewhere behind him, a voice cut through the night.

“Hey, Cowboy. Might wanna ease up a little before you break your damn knuckles.”

It was Eddie. That slow Southern drawl, usually a little amused, a little teasing. But tonight, Buck didn’t find it funny. Didn’t even flinch.

He didn’t answer. Just kept hitting. Left. Right. Left. Right. Again. Harder.

The bag swung violently under his fists, but it didn’t give him peace.

He heard footsteps crunch behind him, closer now. “Buck. Hey. What the hell's goin’ on? You okay?”

Buck stopped, finally, panting hard, chest heaving. He kept his back to Eddie for a second longer, debating. But the words were already rising in his throat, too fast to stop.

“Remember my sister Maddie?” he said, his voice hoarse.

Eddie nodded slowly. “Sure do. You talk 'bout her all the time. The one with the baby girl, right?”

Buck nodded, then turned around, eyes dark, fists still clenched. “She’s not my only sister. I mean—technically she is. But I’ve got another. May. She’s… she’s my captain’s stepdaughter. Feels like family. Is family.”

Eddie frowned slightly, sensing the shift. “Alright…”

“She was in a car accident.” Buck said it like a slap. “Some drunk asshole ran a light and hit her. And I wasn’t there. I’m here. In this goddamn middle-of-nowhere camp in Texas, pretending like I’m getting better or whatever the hell this is supposed to be.”

There was a silence between them—thick and heavy.

Eddie’s voice dropped low. “Buck… I’m real sorry to hear that. Is she gonna be alright?”

“Couple broken bones. Concussion. She’ll survive.” Buck let out a bitter laugh. “Still doesn’t change the fact that I wasn’t there. I should’ve been there.”

Eddie stepped closer, hands on his hips. “And what exactly would ya have done if you were? Wrapped her in bubble wrap? Stopped the drunk driver with your damn firefighter badge?”

Buck glared at him. “That’s not the point, Eddie!”

“Then what is the point, Buck? That you need somethin’ to hate? 'Cause if it ain’t me, it’s Texas, and if it ain’t Texas, it’s yourself.”

That hit like a sucker punch. Buck blinked, shoulders tense, jaw clenched.

“Don’t act like you know what it’s like.”

Eddie’s gaze narrowed, his voice soft but sharp as steel. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to feel helpless when someone you love gets hurt? You think I ain’t walked that same damn road?”

Their eyes locked. Buck’s chest rose and fell hard, the fire in him not just anger now—but something messier, something raw.

“You don’t get to play therapist,” Buck said. “You hide behind your drawl and your stupid hat and act like nothing ever touches you.”

Eddie’s jaw ticked. “That so?”

“Yeah.”

Another beat of silence. And then—Buck stepped forward. Just enough to close the space between them.

Eddie didn’t move.

The air crackled—too hot, too close. Buck’s breath caught. Their eyes locked. Buck leaned in, hesitating for just a second.

Eddie’s breath hitched.

And then—

Eddie stepped back. Fast. Too fast. His face was unreadable, like he’d thrown a wall up out of nowhere. “No,” he said under his breath. “Don’t.”

Buck’s eyes widened. “Eddie…”

“I can’t,” Eddie said, already turning on his heel, walking away. “Not like this. Not now.”

“Eddie!”

But he was already gone—boots crunching over gravel, the brim of his hat low, his back straight, his retreat unmistakable.

Buck stood there alone under the buzz of the floodlight, his fists still clenched, heart pounding. And for the first time since the call, the weight didn’t feel lighter. It felt like it had just doubled.

He had messed up. Big time.

Chapter Text

Buck was up before the sun had even thought about rising.

He hadn’t slept a single damn minute. Not a blink. His body had lain restless, mind spinning like tires in the mud, and eventually, he just couldn’t take it anymore. So he got up, laced his running shoes, and hit the trail.

Same path as always—past the creek, over the old wooden bridge, and beyond into the trees. He tried to focus on the rhythm of his breath, the slap of his shoes against dirt, anything but the night before. But it didn’t work. His mind kept circling back, again and again, to that one moment.

Why the hell had he done it?

He hadn’t planned it, hadn’t even thought it through. It wasn’t some grand romantic gesture—it had just happened. A moment of weakness. Of comfort. Of need. He’d needed something—anything—to pull him out of that horrible sinking feeling after the call about May.

He’d sent her, what, a million messages last night? Maybe more. She hadn’t answered yet, obviously. It had been the middle of the night. But still. The silence gnawed at him.

And of course, his damn ankle still wasn’t a hundred percent. It didn’t hurt, not really—but there was a tension there. Like his body remembered the injury even if his mind didn’t want to.

“BUUUUCK!”

The voice was high and joyful and unmistakably young.

Buck skidded to a stop, heart thudding—not from the run, but from the pure surprise of it.

There, just down the trail, riding a horse like it was the most normal thing in the world, was Christopher. And he wasn’t alone.

Sitting behind him, holding the reins with ease, was none other than Eddie.

Cowboy Eddie.

Eddie tipped his hat with that slow, lazy grin of his, like the night before hadn’t happened, like the world was still just turning easy beneath their feet.

“Mornin’, Buck. Back at it with the sunrise jog, huh?”

Buck opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He just blinked, frozen in place. Thank God Christopher spoke up again, bubbly and excited.

“On Sunday, Sophie and I are bakin’ cherry pie with the cherries we picked ourselves! You wanna come over for coffee and dessert? We’d really love it if you came!”

Buck’s heart tripped over itself. Sophie.

He had forgotten about her. This beautiful, sweet, golden-hearted woman. Eddie’s fiancée.

“I…”

Eddie cut in smoothly, still smiling, voice soft but steady. “We’d both really love it if ya came, Buck. Be nice havin’ ya there.”

He winked. Winked.

“I… I…”

Christopher beamed. “Then it’s settled! Dad and I gotta go feed the cows now, but we’ll see you Sunday, okay? I can’t wait!”

Eddie gave Buck one last easy smile, then tugged gently at the reins. The horse—not Sunny, he realized distantly—turned with a soft snort and carried them away, down a fork in the trail, into the rising gold of early morning.

Buck stood there, the silence closing in around him, heart racing and chest tight.

“I… I…”

He didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t even know what he could say.

__

Buck skipped breakfast.

Not because he was in a rush or anything, but because the very thought of food made his stomach twist. He’d spent the entire night turning over what happened—almost happened—the evening before. And now, in the early morning heat, with the sun not even fully overhead, his nerves felt like live wires under his skin.

Word had come down that training was being moved up—no reason given, but nobody questioned it. Orders were orders. So Buck found himself already on the field, lightly stretching out with Sam, trying to loosen the coil of tension wrapped tight around his chest.

Then he heard the sound of boots on gravel.

Eddie.

Buck glanced up, and sure enough, there he was—Trainer Díaz, back straight, uniform crisp, hat pulled low over his brow, and that damn voice like gravel and steel.

"Morning. Today’s schedule’s shifted, so listen close. We’re runnin’ close-quarter drills followed by conditioning rounds. Partner up by skill level. Let’s move."

He barely looked at them. Barely looked at Buck.

But Buck couldn’t take his eyes off Eddie.

His fingers trembled slightly, barely noticeable unless you were looking closely—but Buck felt it. Every muscle in his body seemed on edge, humming with unease. The thought of Sunday, of sitting at a table with Eddie and Sophie and Chris like nothing had happened—like his stomach hadn’t dropped through the earth—made him want to crawl out of his own skin.

“Hey.” Sam leaned toward him, her voice low, genuinely concerned. “You okay?”

Buck blinked. It took him a second to even process the words. He pulled his gaze away from Eddie—finally—and forced himself to look at her.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little lightheaded, that’s all,” he muttered, brushing it off as best he could.

Before Sam could press further, Eddie’s voice cracked through the air like a whip, sharp and commanding.

“Buckley,” he barked, thick Texan drawl slicing straight to Buck’s ears. “You wanna repeat what I just said?”

No. No, Buck did not.

“Uhhh…”

Eddie rolled his eyes, the smallest twitch of disappointment ghosting across his face.

“I expect all of y’all to pay attention when I’m speakin’. Ain’t no use trainin’ if you’re off in la-la land.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and continued outlining the drills.

Buck stood frozen for a moment, heart hammering.

His stomach churned violently, nausea creeping in like a slow, relentless tide.

Everything in him was screaming—loud and silent all at once.

__        

The days blurred by, one after the other, until Sunday finally rolled around—and Eddie never once showed up for their usual nighttime runs.

Buck told himself he hadn’t expected him to. Really, he hadn’t. But still, each night, just as the sky began to darken and the cicadas began their song, Buck found himself outside, sneakers laced, stretching like an idiot.

He’d stand there, by the edge of the gravel path near the fence line, pretending he was just out for a solo jog. But deep down, he knew he was waiting—hoping, stupidly—that Eddie might appear out of the twilight like he always had before. With that easy gait, a half-smile, and a casual “Evenin’, Buck.”

But he didn’t.

Not once.

And it was dumb. Buck knew it was dumb. But knowing didn’t stop the knot that twisted deeper in his stomach with each night Eddie didn’t show.

The thing was, when Eddie did meet him for those runs, something in Buck could breathe. The quiet moments—the half-hearted teasing, the way Eddie would slow down if Buck was limping a little, or how he'd toss him a water bottle without a word—all of that somehow washed away the hard, cold edge of Trainer Diaz from the daytime.

But now that Eddie was absent in the evenings… all Buck was left with was that other version. The drill sergeant. The one who barked orders like Buck was some fresh recruit. The one whose eyes never softened, whose voice cut like a whip.

That Eddie—Trainer Diaz—was a complete asshole.

And without the cowboy version to balance him out, Buck found himself resenting him more and more.

He missed the man who laughed, who told Buck stupid stories from little Chris, who who wore a cowboy hat and rode horses as if it were the 19th century. The man who almost—almost—kissed him in the barnyard dust.

And maybe that’s what made it hurt more than it should have. Because he wasn’t just missing a running partner. He was missing the little glimpses of a man he was starting to care way too much about.

__

The sun hung low in the Texas sky, casting long golden shadows across the fields, and the air smelled faintly of hay, horses, and ripening cherries. Buck stood just outside the white-fenced driveway, staring up at the modest house nestled among oak trees and tall prairie grass. It was the kind of place you didn’t just live in—you belonged to it.

He took a breath, then another. His palms were sweating, which was ridiculous, considering this was just coffee and pie with a friend, or something like that.And the friend’s kid. And… the friend’s soon to be wife. Buck’s stomach twisted again. He hadn’t realized how much he’d pushed Sophie out of his thoughts until Chris said her name.

The front door creaked open before he could psych himself out completely.

“Buck!” Chris hollered, full of energy and sunshine, barreling down the porch steps barefoot and beaming.

Buck grinned, relief washing over him. “Hey, buddy!” He crouched down just in time for Chris to tackle him in a hug.

“Y’all get on up here!” a voice called from the porch. Buck looked up and saw her—Sophie. She was even more stunning than he remembered. Long light blond hair in a braid over her shoulder, flour dusted across her apron, and a smile as warm as the breeze.

Buck swallowed hard. “Hi.”

“Well now, if it ain’t the infamous Buckley,” she teased gently. “C’mon in before the pie gets cold, sugar.”

He followed Chris up the steps, heart pounding. “Thanks for the invite.”

“Invite?” Sophie snorted. “Chris wouldn’t stop talkin’ about it all week. You’d think you were some kinda movie star.”

Buck shot Chris a playful look. “Guess I am unreplaceable.”

Chris nodded solemnly. “You really are. Nobody else knows how to cheat at Rummy and make it look like an accident.”

The screen door banged behind them as Buck stepped into the house. It smelled like cinnamon, butter, and something fruity—like childhood summers and Southern kitchens. It was cozy, worn-in, full of life.

And then he saw him—Eddie.

Standing at the counter, sleeves rolled up, slicing into a deep red cherry pie. He looked up, caught Buck’s eye, and gave a small, crooked grin.

“Bout time you showed up,” he drawled. “We were startin’ to think city folk don’t know how to tell time.”

“I had to walk here,” Buck replied, tossing his hoodie onto the back of a chair. “Didn’t realize I was expected to sprint across Texas.”

Eddie chuckled. “You’re the one always runnin’. Figured you’d beat the sun.”

Buck grinned, but something about Eddie’s tone—gentler than usual, warm even—caught him off guard.

They settled in around the kitchen table. Chris pulled out his favorite board game, and Sophie placed a pitcher of iced tea at the center, along with the cherry pie, which was oozing syrupy goodness onto the pie plate.

“Coffee’s fresh,” she said, reaching for cups. “I made it strong. Just how Ed likes it.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” Eddie muttered, blushing faintly.

“Oh hush,” Sophie said. “Y’all don’t mind if I call him Ed, do ya?”

Buck lifted a brow, amused. “Actually, I think I’ll start too. Ed. Has a nice ring to it.”

“You do and I’ll punch ya in the nose,” Eddie replied smoothly, though his eyes sparkled.

They passed slices of pie around the table, and Buck bit in. It was tart, sweet, flaky—the kind of pie that made you want to lean back and close your eyes for a second.

“This is… incredible,” he said, eyes wide. “You made this from scratch?”

“Picked the cherries off the tree out back just yesterday,” Sophie said proudly.

Chris beamed. “And I pitted every single one.”

“With only minor cherry juice casualties,” Eddie added, pointing at the red streaks still faintly staining Chris’s fingers.

The conversation drifted easily after that. They talked about Chris’s latest reading challenge, about a calf that had been born two days ago on the neighbor’s ranch, and how Sophie had taken up quilting even though she claimed she had no patience for it.

Buck found himself laughing more than he had in weeks. Everything about the house felt alive—comforting, safe, and just a little unreal. He watched Eddie quietly as the man leaned back in his chair, sipping coffee and listening to Chris chatter. He looked more at home than Buck had ever seen him. More settled.

More… out of reach?

“Buck,” Sophie said gently, drawing him back. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

He blinked. “For what?”

“For bein’ here. For trainin’ with Ed. For… I dunno. Bein’ part of all this.”

Buck felt his cheeks warm. “I should be thanking you. This place, this—” he gestured vaguely around the room “—it’s a little like getting a piece of peace I didn’t know I was missing.”

Sophie smiled at that, soft and kind. “Well, sugar, you’re welcome here anytime. Our door’s open.”

Eddie cleared his throat suddenly and stood. “You uh… wanna help me feed the horses?” he asked Buck, not quite meeting his eye.

Buck blinked. “Sure.”

He followed Eddie out through the back door, boots crunching on gravel, the late afternoon sun painting the field in soft golds and pale pinks.

They moved in silence for a few minutes, scooping feed, refilling troughs, checking on water. Eddie’s movements were practiced, second nature. Buck just tried to keep up.

“She’s really great,” Buck said quietly, not sure why he was saying it at all.

Eddie looked up. “Sophie? Yeah. She is.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You love her,” Buck said.

It wasn’t a question.

Eddie didn’t answer right away. He leaned on the fence, arms folded over the top rail, watching the horses graze.

“I do,” he said eventually. “But it’s… complicated sometimes.”

Buck stood beside him. “Yeah,” he said, voice just as soft. “I get that.”

Their shoulders almost touched. The breeze lifted Eddie’s hat just slightly, and he reached up to adjust it. Buck looked at his hands, calloused and sun-worn, then at his profile—strong, tired, familiar.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” Buck said, barely above a whisper.

Eddie turned to him, brow furrowed. “Why?”

“I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean to—”

Eddie held up a hand. “Buck,” he said, voice firm but not unkind. “You were upset. It wasn’t nothin’.”

They stared at each other for a second, long and unblinking.

Then, quietly, Eddie said, “I ain’t mad.”

Buck swallowed. “You’re sure?”

Eddie’s eyes softened. “I’m sure. And I’m glad you’re here.”

Buck’s heart stuttered.

And then something shifted.

Eddie leaned in just a fraction, not much, but enough for Buck to feel his breath, to see the smallest flicker of something more in his eyes—fear, maybe. Longing. Recognition.

Buck’s pulse thundered in his ears.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And for a second—a single second—he thought Eddie might close that gap.

Instead, Eddie stepped back. Fast.

“C’mon,” he said, voice suddenly too loud, too casual. “Chris’ll be wantin’ to show you his new slingshot.”

He turned away quickly, walking toward the barn.

Buck stayed behind for a moment, heart racing, the ghost of something electric lingering in the air between them.

He looked up at the sky.

Damn Texas.

Damn cherry pie.

And damn Eddie Díaz.                 

__

On Monday, during training, Eddie ignored Buck completely.

And weirdly… that felt almost better than being yelled at. But still—it chipped away at Buck in a way he hadn’t expected. Like a slow crack spiderwebbing through glass. It wasn’t the silence itself. It was the absence inside it.

By the time evening rolled around, Buck was convinced it would be another quiet, lonely run under the stars. He didn’t even bother to hope anymore.

But just as he was stretching at the fence line, preparing to jog into the fading light, a familiar voice broke the silence behind him.

“Buckley.”

Buck spun around. “Eddie?”

There he was—standing just a few feet away, arms crossed, wearing that same stubborn expression Buck had come to associate with trouble.

Eddie just shook his head in mock disappointment. “Don’t talk. Just run.”

And with that, he took off—long strides, fast and fluid like a man who’d been running these trails his whole life.

Buck scrambled to catch up. “Seriously?” he muttered to himself, breath already hitching as he pushed his legs harder. “No warmup? No mercy?”

They ran in silence. The only sounds were the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the distant hum of cicadas rising with the dusk. The sun dipped low behind the hills, painting the sky in streaks of gold and purple. It was the kind of quiet that felt charged with something—tension, maybe. Or something deeper.

Then, without warning, Eddie stopped.

Buck skidded to a halt beside him, panting, glancing around to find what he was staring at. But there was nothing—just fields and sky.

“What are you looking at?” Buck asked, confused.

Eddie turned to him with that infuriating, boyish smirk of his. “Nothin’. Jus’ wanted to make ya stop.”

And before Buck could react, Eddie tackled him—arms around his waist, knocking him clean off his feet and into the tall grass. Buck landed with a surprised yelp, blinking up at the dusky sky, momentarily stunned.

Eddie was laughing. Full-bodied, careless laughter, the kind that rumbled from deep in his chest and lit up his entire face.

Buck burst into laughter too—helpless, breathless—before launching himself at Eddie in retaliation. He shoved him into the grass, and they rolled, tussling like kids, grass flying, limbs tangled, laughter echoing through the open air.

“Yer slow,” Eddie teased, pinned beneath Buck for half a second before wriggling free and scrambling to his feet.

“I let you tackle me,” Buck argued, breath hitching with amusement as he scrambled up after him.

“Uh-huh. Keep tellin’ yerself that, cowboy.”

And with that, Eddie took off—running across the field with a wild, whooping holler that made Buck’s heart twist with something that felt like joy.

Buck chased him, laughter bubbling up in his chest. They sprinted through the field, dodging wildflowers and each other’s outstretched hands, two grown men acting like overgrown kids under the Texas twilight.

For a while—just a little while—Buck forgot everything.

Forgot May’s accident. Forgot the awkwardness and the near-kiss. Forgot how Eddie had ignored him, and how much that had stung.

Right now, he just felt free. Free and alive and dizzy with something unspoken.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like that. Or the last time he’d wanted to hold on to a moment so badly.

And maybe it was stupid.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

But right here, in this golden, grass-stained blur of laughter and light, Buck felt like a kid again.

And there was no one in the whole damn world he’d rather feel that way with… than Eddie Diaz.

___

The next two days felt like a slow descent into something Buck couldn’t name—a blend of confusion, hurt, and frustration that simmered under his skin like a second sunburn. It wasn’t just that Eddie was distant. No, Eddie had turned cold, sharp-edged, like steel left out in the sun. Every moment they crossed paths at training was like trying to navigate a minefield.

"Buckley! You call that a sprint? Looks more like yer strollin' through a damn Sunday market. Move your ass!"

The shout came from across the field, Texas drawl thick and scalding. Buck flinched, chest already burning from the heat and the pace. He didn’t answer. He just pushed harder, sprinting until his lungs screamed. He could feel Eddie’s eyes on him, but there was no encouragement in them. Just ice.

The memory of Sunday—the laughter, the wild run through the tall grass, Eddie’s grin as he tossed him to the ground—had faded so quickly it was almost like it hadn’t happened. Buck had clung to it for a while. But now it felt like a dream, some beautiful trick of the mind.

Now all he got were commands barked from across the training ground and the cold shoulder when he passed Eddie in the camp.

That morning, during drills, Buck hesitated for half a beat before grabbing the wrong rope. Eddie noticed.

"Christ, Buckley! If yer not gonna pay attention, you might as well pack up and go home. You ain't doin' no one any favors out here."

Sam winced beside Buck but didn’t say anything. The others all kept their eyes averted. No one wanted to draw the fire. Buck bit the inside of his cheek and nodded silently, swallowing the urge to yell back.

He could feel the sting behind his eyes, and that only pissed him off more.

At lunch, Buck sat alone under a tree by the equipment shed. His appetite was shot, and his legs ached from running drills all morning. He picked at a granola bar, chewing without tasting.

He looked up when he heard boots crunching over gravel.

Eddie.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t glance Buck’s way. Just passed by like Buck wasn’t even there. Like they hadn’t talked. Like they hadn’t laughed. Like Buck wasn’t slowly losing his damn mind over this sudden freeze.

That night, Buck went to the fence again. Just in case. Just for the possibility that maybe, maybe, Eddie would show up.

He didn’t.

__

The next day started no better.

Eddie was waiting at the training field before the sun had fully crested the horizon. Hat pulled low, clipboard in hand, he looked every bit the no-nonsense cowboy drill sergeant.

Buck approached with the rest of the group, offering a quiet, hopeful, "Morning."

Eddie didn’t respond. Not a glance. Not a grunt.

He just blew the whistle and started barking instructions.

"Ten laps. Ain’t no shortcuts. If you lag behind, I will personally drag your sorry ass through every one. Move!"

The others groaned, but Buck just lowered his head and ran. He was used to it now. The tone, the fire. But it didn’t hurt any less.

Halfway through drills, Buck fumbled a tire hop and landed off balance. He caught himself before falling but not before Eddie noticed.

"Damn it, Buckley! You got lead in your feet or what? Ain’t nobody ever taught you how to jump?"

"Sorry," Buck muttered.

Eddie stalked over. "What was that? Speak up, son. I don’t hear mumblin'. I hear excuses."

Buck looked up, eyes tired, voice tight. "I said I’m sorry."

Eddie leaned in, voice low and cutting. "Don’t be sorry. Be better."

And just like that, he walked off.

__

By the end of the second day, Buck was wrecked. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally.

He showered late, once most of the other guys were already gone. He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to pretend everything was fine. He stood under the water until it ran cold.

He knew he should be angry. Should be storming into Eddie’s office and demanding answers. But every time he pictured Eddie’s face—the warmth from before, the playfulness, the spark he was sure had been there that night—all he felt was grief. Like he’d lost something he’d only just found.

And worst of all, he had no idea why.

What had changed?

Why was Eddie suddenly treating him like dirt under his boots?

He laid awake that night, staring at the ceiling fan spin slowly above his coat, listening to the cicadas scream outside. He wanted to believe it was some test, some weird way Eddie was trying to push him to improve.

But it didn’t feel like that.

It felt like rejection. Pure and simple.

__

On Wednesday, Buck finally broke.

They were midway through an obstacle course when Buck missed a handhold and fell hard into the mud pit below.

He groaned, brushing dirt from his eyes, already bracing for the verbal lashing he knew was coming.

Sure enough, Eddie’s voice rang out. "Damn it, Buckley! You fallin' on purpose now? Or you just tryin' to embarrass the rest of us with this pitiful excuse for coordination?"

Buck stood, breathing hard. Mud soaked through his shirt. His hands shook.

He climbed out, locked eyes with Eddie.

"What the hell is your problem with me?"

The field went dead silent.

Eddie’s jaw tensed. "Watch your tone."

"No," Buck snapped, stepping closer. "You know what? I won't. You've been on my case nonstop. Yelling at me, ignoring me, treating me like garbage. If you got a problem, say it. Otherwise, back the hell off."

Eddie stared at him, unreadable.

Then, quietly, through clenched teeth: "Get back in line."

Buck didn’t move. "Why are you doing this? We were fine. Better than fine. What changed?"

Eddie’s nostrils flared. "I said get. In. Line."

Buck took a shaky breath, eyes burning.

He turned and walked back.

Eddie didn’t say another word the rest of the day.

And somehow, that was worse than the yelling.

That night, Buck didn’t go to the fence.

He sat on his bunk, staring at his phone, May’s last message blinking unread. He didn’t want to talk to her. Didn’t want to talk to anyone.

The space between him and Eddie had never felt wider.

And Buck was starting to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing.

The laughter. The softness. The almost-kiss.

Maybe that had all just been a mirage in the Texas heat.

Maybe he’d been a damn fool.

__

The silence from Eddie had stretched on like a stubborn storm cloud, refusing to lift, all the way through to the next Sunday. Buck had stopped expecting anything different. Even when Sam had asked him once—casually, but not without weight—what he’d meant when he said, "We were better than fine," he’d just shrugged. It didn’t matter. Not anymore.

That Sunday, the camp buzzed with tension. A heavy storm was predicted for the evening—one of those Texas storms where the sky turned green and the wind whistled like a warning. Everyone was on edge, prepping and reinforcing the cabins and common buildings. Buck threw himself into the work, hammering and hauling and tying down tarp until his muscles ached. It kept his mind still, at least for a while.

Most of the day, he stuck with Sam. He liked her more than he’d expected to. She was smart and sharp and had a tongue that could cut steel when she wanted it to. But when the last nail was in, and the sky still hadn’t cracked open, Buck was jittery. Restless. He felt like he’d swallowed lightning and needed to run just to ground himself again.

So he ran.

But not toward the woods, like usual. His feet carried him in the opposite direction, toward the big red farmhouse. He told himself it was dumb—dangerous even, with the storm looming—but his legs didn’t listen. He just ran, faster with every step, as if he could outrun his own better judgment.

As he passed the farmhouse, something made him slow. A figure out by the barn caught his eye. A man in a worn-out cowboy hat, hunched over a support beam, fighting with a nail that refused to go in. The wind had picked up now—whipping at Buck’s shirt, pulling at his breath—and the sky was bruising, clouds swirling heavy and low.

Buck should have turned around. He should have gone back to camp. But instead, he walked straight toward the barn.

“Hey!” he called over the wind. “Need a hand?”

Eddie startled and looked up. His jaw tensed when he saw Buck, as if he’d tasted something bitter.

“Buckley,” he said, voice rising over the wind, thick with that slow Texas drawl. “What the hell are you doin’ out here? Storm’s comin’ in fast. You oughta be back at camp.”

Buck smirked, breathless. “Was that concern I heard, Diaz? I was just trying to help. Didn’t realize that was such a crime.”

Eddie glared, but then his eyes flicked back to the loose board he’d been fighting with, and something in him softened—barely.

“I could use a second pair of hands,” he muttered. “Hold this damn board in place. Gotta screw it down before the wind takes it.”

Buck stepped up without another word, planting his feet and gripping the plank tight as Eddie grabbed the power drill. His hands were steady, efficient—he always moved like a man who knew how to fix things, even if he couldn’t fix what mattered.

They worked in silence. The rain started soft, then all at once. It was that Texas kind of rain, too—big, cold, angry drops that slapped against the tin roof of the barn and ran down Buck’s back like ice water.

A crack of lightning split the sky, so close that Buck flinched hard, eyes squeezing shut before he could stop himself.

Eddie paused, turning toward him. His face shifted in an instant—from focus to concern.

“You alright?” he asked, quieter this time. Almost gentle.

Buck hesitated. He could’ve told him about the lightning strike years ago—the one that still haunted his bones some nights—but instead, he just shrugged.

“Yeah. Fine.”

Eddie gave him a long look, like he didn’t quite buy it, but didn’t press.

When the last screw was in, and the wind had started to howl, Eddie didn’t even hesitate. He reached for the barn door and yanked it open against the pressure of the storm.

“We ain’t runnin’ back in this. Too damn risky.” He motioned Buck inside. “C’mon. We’ll wait it out here.”

The barn was musty and dim, the only light a flickering overhead bulb and the occasional flash of lightning through the slats. Buck followed Eddie inside, soaked to the bone but weirdly warm in the chest.

They stood in silence for a long minute, both catching their breath, listening to the thunder crackle overhead.

Eddie pulled off his hat and shook out the water, then looked at Buck—really looked at him for the first time in a week. “What were you thinkin’, runnin’ all the way out here?”

Buck huffed. “Guess I wasn’t.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

Another flash of lightning lit up the barn, followed by a deafening boom of thunder. Buck jumped again—less violently this time, but enough that Eddie noticed.

“You sure you’re okay?” Eddie asked, his voice lower now, less of the bark and more of the man beneath.

The raw, honest worry in Eddie’s voice did something strange to Buck—rattled something loose inside him that he hadn’t even realized was still locked up.

Buck narrowed his eyes, his voice sharp with frustration. “What’s your deal?”

Eddie blinked. “My wh—?”

“Your deal, Eddie,” Buck repeated, stepping closer. “I feel like you like me, but you don’t like me, but you do like me—and I don’t know what this is. You look at me like I mean something, then you treat me like I’m just some dumb rookie you’re stuck babysitting.”

Eddie didn’t answer. He just stared, lips pressed tight together, jaw ticking. The barn was quiet except for the rain beating on the roof and the sound of Buck’s breath, ragged with emotion.

“Speak,” Buck snapped. “Say something. For once in your goddamn life, Eddie, say something real.”

Eddie shifted on his boots, eyes dropping for half a second before he looked back up, soft but serious. “I like you, Buck. I thought that was obvious.”

Buck let out a harsh laugh, something bitter caught in it. “Well, you’ve got a hell of a way of showin’ it. You don’t ignore people you like. You don’t treat ‘em like crap in front of everyone. You don’t make them feel small.”

Eddie looked like he’d been slapped. He dropped his gaze again, scuffing his boot against the hay-covered floor. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Reckon I coulda been a bit nicer.”

Buck folded his arms across his chest, his heart pounding. “A bit?”

Eddie sighed. “Look, I ain’t good at this. I ain’t ever been good at this.”

“At what?” Buck snapped.

“This,” Eddie said, waving his hand between them. “Feelings. Bein’ vulnerable. Hell, even talkin’ ‘bout it. It’s easier to just push people away. Safer.”

Buck stepped closer, his voice lower now but no less intense. “Yeah, well, pushing people away doesn’t make the feelings go away. It just makes everything worse.”

“I know that, dammit,” Eddie said, his voice rising with the thunder outside. “You think I don’t lie awake hatin’ myself for the way I treat you? Every time I yell at you, I’m thinkin’ about how much I wish I could take it back.”

Buck’s throat tightened. “Then why do it?”

“’Cause I’m scared, Buck,” Eddie admitted, voice cracking. “I ain’t scared of fightin’ in wars or runnin’ around with weapons in my hands. But you? You scare the hell outta me. The way you make me feel... I don’t know what to do with that.”

Buck’s face softened, but only slightly. “You could try being honest.”

“I am bein’ honest,” Eddie said, stepping forward now too. His voice dropped lower, richer, that Southern drawl thick with something raw. “You make me feel like I ain’t broken no more. Like maybe there’s still somethin’ good in me worth lovin’. And I don’t know what to do with that, Buck. I don’t.”

Buck’s lips parted, his chest heaving slightly. “Then stop running.”

Eddie was quiet for a beat, breathing heavily, his eyes locked on Buck’s. The air between them crackled louder than the storm outside.

“You drive me insane,” Eddie said quietly.

Buck blinked. “Yeah. I know the feeling.”

And then Eddie stepped forward, closed the last few inches of space, grabbed Buck by the front of his shirt—and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate, full of everything they hadn’t said, everything they’d buried under shouting matches and side glances and late-night jogs. Buck gasped into it for just a second before his hands found Eddie’s shoulders and pulled him closer, kissing back with equal fire.

It was like being hit by lightning—but in the best way. Buck melted into it, into Eddie’s body pressed against his, the smell of rain and sawdust and warm skin overwhelming him. Eddie's grip on him was tight, grounding, like he couldn’t bear to let go—and maybe he couldn’t.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, neither one of them said anything right away. The air between them was thick with the storm, and yet somehow, impossibly, calm.

Eddie gave a shaky laugh. “Well... shit.”

Buck grinned breathlessly. “That what you call a Southern apology?”

Eddie’s lips curved up slightly. “Somethin’ like that.”

Buck cupped the side of Eddie’s neck, thumb brushing just under his jaw. “You better not ignore me tomorrow.”

“I won’t,” Eddie promised, voice low and rough. “But I might still yell.”

Buck smiled. “As long as you kiss me after.”

Eddie’s eyes darkened, and he leaned in again, slower this time, a softer press of lips to lips that tasted like thunder and relief.

Outside, the storm raged on.

The rain had turned into a steady roar above them, the barn wrapped in a hushed cocoon of thunder and warm hay-scented shadows. Buck stood there, still catching his breath, heart racing not just from the kiss—but from everything it meant.

Eddie looked at him like he was seeing him for the first time—and at the same time like he’d always seen him. Quiet reverence behind storm-wet lashes, that Southern drawl gentle when he finally spoke.

“Come here.”

Buck didn’t hesitate. He stepped into Eddie’s space again, hands finding the edges of his flannel shirt and tugging him closer until their bodies aligned, flush and warm and alive. Eddie’s hands were already at Buck’s waist, rough palms sliding beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers pressing into skin like he needed the grounding.

Their mouths met again, slower this time—exploratory, hungry but reverent. Buck moaned softly into the kiss, his hand curling into the fabric at Eddie’s shoulder. He felt like he was burning and melting all at once.

Eddie backed him slowly toward a stack of hay bales, never breaking contact. When Buck’s knees bumped the edge, Eddie nudged him down gently, lowering him with surprising care until Buck was lying back against the soft straw, Eddie above him, bracing himself with his arms on either side.

They looked at each other for a moment—both of them breathless, wide-eyed, vulnerable.

“This okay?” Eddie asked, voice low, that Texan drawl wrapping around the words like a question wrapped in velvet.

“Yeah,” Buck whispered. “It’s more than okay.”

They kissed again, deeper now, with a new kind of intensity. Fingers explored over cotton and skin, their bodies pressed together like puzzle pieces that had been waiting to click into place. Eddie’s mouth found Buck’s jaw, his neck, the sensitive curve where shoulder met collarbone—and Buck arched into him, eyes fluttering shut.

Clothes were removed slowly, piece by piece, not rushed but reverent—like every button and every zipper was a promise. Each new inch of exposed skin was touched like it mattered, like it meant something. And it did.

Buck’s hands roamed Eddie’s back, memorizing the muscles there, the old scar over his ribs. Eddie’s lips mapped Buck’s chest, moving lower with every exhale. The air between them buzzed with heat, thick with the scent of sweat and hay and want.

They didn’t speak much—just breath and sighs, whispered names, low murmurs of “God, you feel so good” and “I’ve wanted this so long.” It wasn’t perfect—hay stuck to their skin, the occasional squeak of the barn wood beneath them—but none of it mattered. All that mattered was the way they moved together, the way they fit.

It was slow and raw and overwhelming. Not just lust, but something deeper.

When they finally lay still, bodies tangled, skin damp with sweat and the heat between them, the storm was starting to fade. The rain softened to a gentle patter, and the thunder had rumbled off toward the hills.

Buck rested his head on Eddie’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath him. Eddie’s arm wrapped tightly around his back, fingertips tracing soft circles over his skin.

“Didn’t think this was how tonight would go,” Buck said quietly, voice rough with emotion.

Eddie let out a low chuckle, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Reckon it’s the best damn surprise I’ve ever had.”

They lay there for a long while, the barn their little secret sanctuary, two bodies wrapped around each other like they'd always been meant to find their way there. And maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something neither of them had known how much they needed—until now.

Chapter Text

The after was always awkward.

Not as gut-punch terrible as the first time, sure—but still uncomfortable enough to coat the air with something heavy. Something unspoken. Buck sat on the wooden floor of the barn, a scratchy old blanket pulled tightly around his bare shoulders, watching Eddie carefully. Eddie had his back turned, shoulders tense beneath the weight of silence.

“What’s going on, Eds?” Buck asked quietly.

Eddie let out a hollow, humorless laugh. “Told ya not to call me that.”

Buck smirked, though there wasn’t much amusement in it. “Alright then—what’s wrong, Trainer Díaz?”

That silenced Eddie for a beat, long enough for Buck to think maybe he wouldn’t answer at all. But then, in a low voice, like the words weighed too much to carry, Eddie finally said it:

“I’m engaged, Buck. I... I’m engaged.”

The words cut like glass. Buck felt them slice through the moment, through the warmth they’d just shared, through every part of him that had dared to hope for something different. He pulled the blanket a little tighter and stared at the straw-covered floor, jaw clenched.

“I know,” Buck replied after a second. “You were also engaged the last time. And the time before that. Hell, you were engaged the first time this happened.”

Eddie didn’t respond. He just sat there, quiet, facing away, shoulders drawn in like he was bracing for impact.

“This isn’t an accident, Eddie,” Buck continued, voice tightening. “You can’t pretend like it is. Not after all this time.”

“No,” Eddie said, voice barely more than a whisper. “It’s a mistake. One I keep repeatin’.”

He said it like he hated himself for it, like the words hurt him just as much as they hurt Buck—and still, they landed like a slap.

Buck flinched, but he held steady. “You don’t mean me,” he said carefully. “You mean this... situation. The cheating. The hiding.”

Eddie didn’t answer, but the silence said enough.

“Oh, come on, Eddie,” Buck snapped, frustration boiling to the surface. “You’re not in love with her. And I don’t know who you’re trying to fool—her or your damn self.”

That made Eddie flinch. He still didn’t turn around. Still wouldn’t look at him.

Buck stood, the blanket falling from his shoulders. “I like Sophie. She’s wonderful. She’s kind, she’s smart, she makes killer cherry pie—but she’s not it, and you know it.”

“I can’t,” Eddie said suddenly, voice broken like wind through splintered wood.

Buck blinked. “You can’t what? Talk about it?”

Eddie whipped around, and Buck froze.

His face—usually so composed, hard-edged and unreadable—was soaked in tears. Red-eyed, lips trembling, his hands curled into fists like he didn’t know what else to do with them.

“I can’t be in love with her,” Eddie rasped. “I can’t even want her. Not in the way I’m supposed to. I thought... God, I thought she could fix me. Just like I thought Shannon would fix me. But they can’t. Nothin’ can change what I am.”

He was crying harder now, shoulders shaking with the weight of all the years he hadn’t said this. The barn seemed to go quiet around them, like even the storm outside was listening.

Buck didn’t know what to say. He wanted to go to him, to hold him. He should have, maybe. But something in him cracked too wide.

“And what are you?” Buck asked softly.

Eddie looked up at him, like the words had punched the air out of his lungs. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Don’t make me say it,” he whispered.

And maybe Buck should’ve stayed. Maybe he should’ve pulled him into his arms, told him it was okay, that he wasn’t broken. But Buck couldn’t. He felt like his own chest was about to cave in.

So instead, he stepped forward, leaned down, and pressed a gentle kiss to Eddie’s hair—salt and hay and something almost sacred in that moment.

“It’s good to know,” Buck said, voice low and steady, “that you’re only lying to her... and not to yourself.”

Then he turned, gathered his clothes with shaking hands, and disappeared into the dark night, the barn doors creaking shut behind him.

The walk back to camp was silent. The heat of the day had disappeared, but Buck barely noticed. His body moved on instinct, but his mind was somewhere else entirely—still in that barn, with a man who didn’t know how to be what he already was.

__

The air inside the old red barn was thick with hay, heat, and the faint smell of motor oil. Somewhere in the rafters, a moth flapped lazily under the single overhead bulb, casting dancing shadows across the wooden beams. Buck leaned against the wall near the old workbench, his shirt unbuttoned and sticking slightly to his chest. His breath came out in quiet puffs as he watched Eddie pace in front of him, boot heels thudding softly against the floor.

“You ever consider just… wearin’ somethin’ other than those damn sneakers?” Eddie asked, glancing down at Buck’s shoes with that half-grin that made Buck’s insides feel like melted butter.

Buck looked down and wiggled his toes in the worn soles. “What’s wrong with my sneakers?”

“They ain’t got no soul,” Eddie drawled with a wink, then looked mock-serious. “Cowboy boots, Buck. Real men wear boots.”

Buck smirked and pushed off the wall, closing the distance between them. “You’re telling me cowboy boots are what makes a man now?”

“I’m just sayin’,” Eddie said, eyes lighting up, “when you wear boots, people respect you. You walk into a place and folks know you mean business.”

“Pretty sure no one's ever looked at your boots and thought ‘there goes a man I better not mess with’,” Buck teased, wrapping his arms loosely around Eddie’s waist. “They’re too clean.”

Eddie laughed, warm and raspy, and Buck felt it vibrate through his own chest. “That’s ‘cause I don’t go stomp through the mud like a fool. Doesn’t mean I won’t throw someone over my shoulder if I need to.”

Buck raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“You forget I was in the Army, darlin’?”

“No,” Buck whispered, leaning in. “I just like hearing you remind me.”

Eddie’s eyes softened, and then they kissed—slow and unhurried, like they had all the time in the world. It was the kind of kiss that felt more like a conversation than anything else, full of all the things they weren’t allowed to say during the day.

When they finally pulled apart, Eddie rested his forehead against Buck’s.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“Always.”

“I was workin’ on a new salsa recipe earlier. Thinkin’ of usin’ it for Chris communion next year, if we ever get around to pickin’ food.”

Buck blinked, startled. “You want your sons’s communion salsa to be something you made while hiding in a barn with your secret boyfriend?”

Eddie laughed again, that low, boyish sound that Buck swore could heal bones. “I said if. Maybe I’ll save it for you instead. Somethin’ spicy for a spicy man.”

Buck rolled his eyes but smiled. “Alright then, Chef Díaz. What’s in it?”

Eddie pulled back just enough to gesture with his hands. “Roasted jalapeños, peach for sweetness, a little lime juice, red onion, pinch of cumin. But the trick is charrin’ the peppers over open flame first. Makes it smoky.”

“That sounds…” Buck licked his lips. “Dangerously good.”

“Maybe I’ll bottle it. Call it ‘Forbidden Fire.’ Only available to handsome men I sneak off to barns with.”

“Oh, so it’s exclusive?”

“Limited edition,” Eddie said, voice dipping low as he stole another kiss.

They eventually settled onto a pile of hay in the far corner of the barn, side by side, legs touching. Buck laid back and stared up at the rafters, Eddie’s hand warm against his.

“You ever think about aliens?” Buck asked suddenly.

Eddie snorted. “Jesus, Buck, where’d that come from?”

“I don’t know. It’s quiet. Feels like the kind of place you’d see a UFO. Wide skies, long roads, no one around.”

Eddie hummed. “I mean… I dunno. Kinda feels arrogant to think we’re the only ones out there, don’t it?”

“Exactly.”

“But if they are out there,” Eddie said slowly, turning to look at Buck, “I hope they don’t judge us too hard.”

Buck turned his head too. “Why’s that?”

“‘Cause we’re still figurin’ out how to love each other without shame. Not sure we’re the species worth visitin’ just yet.”

That made Buck’s heart ache in the quietest, deepest way.

He didn’t say anything after that. Just reached for Eddie’s hand and squeezed it, holding on like he could bottle that night up and keep it with him forever.

Because he already knew what they had wasn’t built to last in the light of day.

But under the soft hum of that barn light, in the safety of shadows and whispered laughter, it had felt like the whole damn universe.

__

Eddie and Buck had slipped into a kind of rhythm.

It wasn’t something they talked about—not exactly—but it happened all the same. After dinner, Buck would quietly leave the camp, his boots crunching over gravel and dry earth, and make his way toward the red barn that sat behind the farmhouse like some old, trusted secret. Eddie would already be there, leaning against the barn doorframe in the low amber light, arms crossed, wearing that half-grin that meant more than he’d ever say aloud.

They talked—God, they talked about everything and nothing. About the way the stars looked different out here, like they were breathing. About Buck’s childhood. About Eddie’s time in the army. About cowboy boots, salsa recipes, whether aliens were real, and how Chris once tried to make toast in a microwave.

They kissed a lot, too. Sloppy, hungry kisses that left Buck breathless. Sometimes the talking stopped altogether and they just... fell into each other. The way they moved together in the hayloft—desperate, laughing, tangled in old quilts and limbs and feelings neither of them could name—made it easy to forget about everything else.

And then there were the early evenings.

When the sun still hung high and golden, casting shadows that stretched across the ranch like lazy yawns, sometimes Chris and Eddie would take Buck riding. Eddie had a couple of aging but gentle horses, and Buck was slowly learning how not to fall off them. They’d ride the property, show him the cattle and the old sheep that followed Chris around like loyal dogs. It was peaceful—simpler somehow—and in those moments, Buck let himself believe this might all be real.

One evening, as the sky softened into lavender and they lit a fire outside the farmhouse, Buck was seated on a log beside Eddie, close enough to feel the warmth of his thigh, their fingers just barely brushing. Chris had gone inside for something, but returned a minute later, bursting through the screen door with a wide grin and something in his hands.

“Buck!” he called, running down the porch steps. “Look what I got for ya!”

Buck turned his head, smiling, and his eyes landed on the object in Chris’s hands.

“Oh my God,” Buck breathed out. “Is that a... cowboy hat?”

Chris nodded, beaming. “Sure is. Every cowboy needs one. Dad and I picked it out together while we were shoppin’.”

Buck stood up, grinning wide, letting Chris plop the brown felt hat right onto his head. “Thanks, kiddo,” he said sincerely. “But why were you guys out shopping? I thought you usually go with Sophie.”

Chris grinned even wider. “We were gettin’ fitted for suits. For the weddin’.”

The smile on Buck’s face froze.

The wedding. Right. That was still a thing. That was always going to be a thing.

Of course, when you were engaged to someone, the natural next step was to marry them. That was kind of the whole point. And even though Buck knew that in his head, hearing it out loud—watching Chris glow with excitement about a future that didn’t include him—was like getting the wind knocked out of his lungs.

He glanced sideways, just for a second, and he thought he saw Eddie’s smile falter too. Thought he saw something flicker behind his eyes. But maybe that was just wishful thinking.

And then came Sophie.

Her voice, warm and sweet like clover honey, floated through the dusk behind them.

“Buck,” she said brightly, “you’re here again. That’s lovely.”

She walked over, barefoot and glowing in the firelight, and tucked herself under Eddie’s arm like she belonged there. Like this whole picture was picture-perfect.

Buck tried not to look.

“If you boys had told me you were makin’ a fire,” Sophie added, “I would’ve prepped some s’mores!”

She shot Eddie a playful look, one that held just a sliver of mock accusation. Eddie shrugged with a crooked smile, but Buck could see the tension under it.

“Weren’t really planned, baby,” Eddie said, his drawl thick and low. “Kinda spur-of-the-moment.”

Sophie laughed and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before turning back to Buck, her eyes bright and open and so, so kind it hurt.

“I’m so glad you’re around more lately,” she said. “It’s good for all of us, havin’ new faces to talk to. The farm can get real quiet sometimes.”

Buck forced a smile. He hated himself a little for it. “Yeah,” he managed, voice strained at the edges. “I really like bein’ here with y’all.”

Sophie nodded earnestly. “When are you headed back to Los Angeles?”

Los Angeles.

God. It felt like a lifetime away. Like a past life. He hadn’t even thought about it lately—not really. Except for a few phone calls with Maddie. And some check-ins with May. The rest of his life had faded into the background, swallowed by horses and haylofts and heat.

“In a month,” he answered automatically. The words hung heavy in the air.

August. It was already August.

And in a month, he’d be on a plane, flying back to a place that no longer felt like home, leaving behind a man who would marry someone else and probably forget him.

Or worse—pretend to.

Buck swallowed, hard, and turned back to the fire, hoping the smoke would hide the way his eyes stung.

Beside him, Eddie was quiet. Still. Too still.

Buck didn’t know what was worse—that he was already in too deep, or that Eddie might be too, and still wouldn’t let himself admit it.

The fire had burned low.

The logs snapped and cracked softly, casting a lazy orange glow that danced across the edges of the barn and flickered over Buck’s face. Chris had gone to bed hours ago, tucked in by Sophie, who had kissed Eddie’s cheek goodnight before retreating inside. Now it was just the two of them. Buck hadn’t moved much since then. He sat cross-legged near the fire, arms loosely wrapped around his knees, gaze fixed on the flames like they might tell him what the hell he was supposed to do next.

Eddie stood a few feet away, silent, hands in his pockets, boots buried in the dirt.

The air between them was heavy, charged—not with desire this time, but with something harder. Something jagged. Something real.

“You're awful quiet,” Buck finally said, not turning around.

Eddie let out a sigh that whistled between his teeth. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

The drawl was softer now. He always sounded more Texan when he was tired—or when he didn’t know what to say.

Buck rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s weird. I used to wish you'd shut up. Back when you were barkin’ orders at me in the field every damn day.”

Eddie huffed a laugh. “That so?”

“Yeah. But now I’d take one of your ‘Buckley, focus!’ speeches if it meant I didn’t have to sit here and feel like I’m the elephant in the goddamn pasture.”

There was a long pause. The fire cracked again. Somewhere out in the distance, a cicada buzzed low in the grass.

“You ain’t the elephant,” Eddie said at last. “You’re just... the truth I don’t know how to deal with.”

Buck turned, eyebrows drawn together. “What the hell does that mean?”

Eddie kicked a rock with the toe of his boot. “Means I feel somethin’. Strong. And I know I can’t do nothin’ about it without hurtin’ someone who don’t deserve it.”

“Sophie,” Buck said quietly.

Eddie nodded once.

“I like her,” Buck admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, I really like her. She’s smart, and she’s kind, and she always brings extra coffee when she knows I’ve had a rough night.”

Eddie let out a tired chuckle. “Yeah. That’s Sophie.”

“But she ain’t you,” Buck added, eyes locked on Eddie now. “She’s not the one I think about when I wake up. She’s not the one I look for across a room.”

Eddie exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging as though the words landed directly on his back. “Dammit, Buck…”

“You don’t gotta say it,” Buck said, standing. “I get it. I know how this ends. I go home in a month, and you get married. And this—whatever this is—turns into somethin’ we never talk about again.”

Eddie shook his head, eyes shining with something Buck couldn’t quite read. “It don’t feel right, Buck. You leavin’. You pretendin’ like this didn’t happen.”

“I’m not the one pretendin’, Eddie.”

Silence settled between them again. The kind of silence that had weight to it. That pressed down on your ribs and made it hard to breathe.

Finally, Eddie stepped closer.

He was close enough now that Buck could smell the faint scent of smoke in his shirt, the clean musk of soap from his earlier shower, and something else underneath it all—fear, maybe. Or longing.

Eddie reached up and pulled the cowboy hat from Buck’s head, holding it between them like it might offer protection. “You looked real good in this, y’know that?”

Buck raised a brow. “Trying to charm me now?”

Eddie’s lips twitched. “No, sir. Tryin’ not to lose my damn mind.”

And just like that, something shifted.

Eddie tossed the hat gently onto the ground and reached for Buck’s hand, their fingers brushing before tangling together, warm and sure. “Come with me,” he said softly, that low Southern rasp threading through every word.

“Where?”

“Barn,” Eddie said. “Can’t talk out here no more.”

They slipped away into the dark, silent except for the soft crunch of gravel under their boots and the chirp of crickets all around them. The barn door creaked open like it had been waiting for them.

Inside, it smelled like summer and hay and something old and familiar.

Eddie pulled the loft ladder down and climbed up first, then reached a hand to help Buck follow. Neither said a word. They didn’t need to. Not yet.

Up in the loft, under the slats of moonlight bleeding through the rafters, they lay side by side on the worn old quilt they’d used a dozen times before. But this time, it wasn’t like the others.

They didn’t kiss immediately. They didn’t reach for each other like they were starving.

They just lay there.

Breathing.

Feeling.

Eddie turned his head, his voice low and cracked. “You ever feel like your whole damn life is built on things you ain’t said?”

Buck stared at the ceiling. “Every day.”

Eddie’s hand found his. Fingers slid together like they were built to fit that way.

“I don’t wanna lose you,” Eddie whispered.

Buck’s heart thudded once, then again. “Then don’t.”

“I wish it was that easy.”

Buck turned, pressing his forehead against Eddie’s. “Maybe it is.”

Eddie closed his eyes, his voice a broken thing now. “I’m scared, Buck. Not of bein’ with you. Just... what it means. What it changes. Who it hurts.”

Buck swallowed. “I know.”

They stayed like that for a long time. Quiet. Still. Hearts pounding.

And when Eddie finally kissed him—slow and careful and trembling—it didn’t feel like a stolen thing anymore.

It felt like a choice.

A choice Buck already knew how it would go.

__

Buck knew the routine by now.

Nights with Eddie had a rhythm all their own—soft conversations spoken in hushed voices, laughter tucked beneath hayloft rafters, whispered secrets traded like precious things. When the stars were high and Eddie let his walls fall just enough, Buck could believe—if only for a little while—that what they had was something real. Something that breathed.

But when the sun crept up over the tops of the trees, painting the world in gold and dust, everything shifted.

As soon as daylight touched the ranch, Eddie became someone else again.

He wasn’t the man who’d kissed Buck like he couldn’t breathe without him. He wasn’t the man who’d curled into Buck’s chest, heart pounding like it was trying to say all the words he wouldn’t. No—he was Eddie Diaz again. Son of Texas soil. A good man with a strong back, a sharper jaw, and a fiancée named Sophie.

And according to Eddie, he sure as hell wasn’t gay. Not even a little.

Buck didn’t need to be told. He saw it in the way Eddie pulled back in the mornings—how he barely met his eyes over coffee, how he talked to him like they’d never stayed up whispering under the stars, like Buck hadn’t mapped every inch of him with trembling hands the night before.

Buck understood it. At least, he tried to.

He’d been lucky, in his own way. He’d had Maddie when he came out—had her unwavering support and fierce protection. And he’d done it in Los Angeles, a city that, while far from perfect, wouldn’t beat a boy bloody just for being soft around the wrong person.

This wasn’t L.A.

This was a dusty little town in the middle of Texas, the kind of place where men shook hands like they were trying to out-grip each other, where you said “sir” to anyone older than you and never talked about feelings unless it was about the Cowboys' last season. Here, the word “gay” didn’t just carry weight—it carried danger.

So Buck understood why Eddie slipped away in the light of day. Why he ignored him, gave him clipped answers, barely spared him a glance. He got it.

Didn’t make it hurt any less.

It stung like hell.

It was in the way Eddie joked easily with Sophie while pretending not to notice Buck standing ten feet away. It was in the way he always walked a little too fast when they left the dinner table, or how his hand would twitch at his side like he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare. It was in the silence. The silence hurt most of all.

And still—Buck stayed.

Because for all the ache, for all the pretending and the pretending-not-to-pretend, there were those stolen nights under the stars. There was that version of Eddie that only existed when the world stopped watching. That version who laughed with his whole body and kissed like he meant it and whispered Buck’s name like a prayer he wasn’t supposed to say out loud.

And that version? That version kept Buck coming back.

Even when it broke his heart.

Even when the dawn came to wipe it all away.

__

The late morning sun beat down over the packed dirt field that had, at some point, been designated as the training area. Buck stood off to the side with a canteen in one hand and his shirt already clinging to his back, sweat tracing paths down the nape of his neck. Beside him, Sam leaned on the handle of a shovel she hadn’t yet used, chewing on a piece of hay like it held more nutritional value than breakfast. Brad #2, who had long since embraced the nickname instead of fighting it, stretched one arm over the other, groaning softly.

"Feels like a damn oven out here," he muttered.

"That’s 'cause it is," Sam replied with a dry grin. "Texas doesn’t believe in moderation."

Buck snorted and took a sip from the canteen. "This is nothing. Try L.A. in wildfire season."

Brad #2 raised a brow. "Aren’t y’all just on fire year-round out there?"

"Pretty much," Buck said, cracking a grin.

Sam tossed the hay to the ground and sighed. "Well, at least y'all got earthquakes to keep it interesting."

"And actors," Buck added.

Brad laughed, and for a moment, the conversation settled into that easy lull that only came when people had been working together long enough to not need to fill every silence.

The door to the barn creaked open, and Eddie stepped out, adjusting his hat against the glare. He walked with his usual military precision, but his limp was more noticeable today, probably from the long ride he’d taken with Chris the day before.

"Alright, folks," he called, voice already carrying that no-nonsense tone he wore like a second skin. "Break’s over. Time t’earn your supper."

Sam rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath, "He always talk like he’s auditionin' for a western?"

Buck grinned. "Pretty sure he is the western."

Eddie raised a brow as he approached. "Y’all done gossipin' or do I need t'get y’all a lemonade stand to go with it?"

Brad saluted half-heartedly. "Ready when you are, Sarge."

Eddie gave him a look but didn’t rise to the bait. He turned to Buck. "You stretched yet?"

"Sure did. Right after I stood around drinking water and listening to the locals complain about the weather."

Sam chuckled.

Eddie shook his head, hiding the smile that threatened. "Alright then. Let’s get movin'. We’re gonna do partner drills today. Coordination, trust, and a little cardio, just to keep y’all humble."

"You make that sound like fun," Buck said, jogging in place.

"Ain’t supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to make you better."

They split off into pairs: Buck with Sam, Brad with one of the newer recruits who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Eddie paced around them, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

The first half of the training was straightforward. Partner lifts, trust falls, a few circuits that involved dragging each other across the field and back. Sam cursed like a sailor the entire time, but she never dropped Buck, even when he laughed so hard mid-fall she almost did.

After a water break, Eddie stepped in to demonstrate a few maneuvers.

"Watch your stance," he said, correcting Buck with a nudge of his boot. "You stand like that in a real situation, you’ll be on your ass before you can say 'oops'."

Buck huffed. "Didn’t know 'oops' was tactical vocabulary."

Eddie smirked. "It is when you're bad at listenin'."

The drills continued well into the afternoon, the sun beginning its slow dip toward the horizon. Conversation trickled in between reps—small things, easy things. Brad talked about the goat he was convinced had it out for him. Sam shared a story about accidentally texting a grocery list to her ex. Buck mentioned Christopher’s obsession with magic tricks and how he now refused to eat pancakes that weren’t shaped like animals.

Eddie remained mostly quiet except for instructions and corrections, though once in a while Buck caught the edge of a smile, the twitch of a dimple threatening to show.

By the time Eddie finally called it, most of them were covered in dust and sweat and more than ready to collapse.

"Same time tomorrow," Eddie said, pulling off his hat to wipe his brow.

Brad groaned. "You sure we can’t just sleep out here?"

"Suit yourself," Eddie said, then turned to Buck. "Don’t forget to ice that shoulder. You’re overcompensatin'."

Buck blinked. "How can you tell?"

"'Cause I know how you move," Eddie said casually. "An' 'cause you keep makin' that face like you're tryin' not t'swear."

Buck opened his mouth to argue, then sighed. "Fine. I’ll ice it."

"Good. 'Cause if it gets worse, I’ll be the one draggin' your ass to the clinic."

Sam tilted her head, grinning. "Aww, you do care."

Eddie tipped his hat. "Don’t make me regret it."

The group dispersed with lazy waves and good-natured curses. Buck lingered behind a moment, watching Eddie gather a few cones and pieces of equipment.

"You ever think about takin' a day off?" Buck asked.

Eddie glanced up. "You ever think about shuttin' up?"

Buck smirked. "Only when you talk pretty to me."

Eddie snorted, turning away to hide the smile that curled onto his lips.

And just like that, the rhythm continued—unchanged, unspoken, and comfortably familiar.

__

As Buck snuck out of the camp that evening, just like he'd done so many nights before, he didn’t even make it past the gate.

Eddie was already there. Leaning casually against the wooden fence like he hadn’t been standing there waiting—like he just happened to be out for a stroll. The brim of his worn cowboy hat cast a soft shadow over his eyes, but Buck could still see the way he smiled when he spotted him.

“Eds,” Buck said, startled, stopping in his tracks. His heart was already racing—and he hadn’t even started jogging yet.

Eddie’s lips curled into that slow, familiar grin. “Evenin’, Cowboy,” he drawled, his voice warm like whiskey and just as dangerous. “Figured we might start the night with a little run. Nothin’ too crazy. Just... move a bit.”

Buck glanced down at himself—he wasn’t exactly dressed for jogging. Sweatpants, sure, but he’d tossed on a hoodie instead of anything breathable. Still, he nodded. If Eddie wanted to run, they’d run. Or at least pretend to.

They started down the familiar trail, the one that curved past the tree line, followed the babbling creek, and led toward the old wooden bridge. They didn’t speak at first. Just walked, their steps in quiet rhythm, the sounds of cicadas humming low around them and the faint rustle of wind through the trees above.

It was peaceful.

But something about the quiet tonight felt heavy, like the pause before thunder rolls in.

And then, near the bridge, Eddie stopped.

Buck slowed beside him. “You okay?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing.

Eddie didn’t answer right away. He was staring out at the water, at the moonlight catching in its gentle ripples. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, but clear.

“Buck,” he said slowly, like he was still weighing the words, “what’re you gonna do once you're back in Los Angeles?”

Buck blinked, surprised by the question. “I mean... go back to work, I guess. Back at Station 118. Back to calls and chaos and the weird things only happenin’ on Tuesdays.”

Eddie huffed a small laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He nodded, still looking out over the water. “You ever hear about the firefighter military transition program? They got open trainin’ spots. For vets.”

Buck shook his head. “No. I didn’t know that. But it sounds like something you’ve looked into.”

Eddie finally turned to face him. There was something tentative in his posture, something that looked a lot like hope but wrapped in doubt.

“I have,” he admitted. “Some of them are out West. Few in San Diego. One’s in L.A.”

Buck’s feet stopped moving. “Eds,” he said carefully, “what are you sayin’?”

Eddie let out a long breath. His shoulders rose and fell, and for a moment, he didn’t meet Buck’s eyes.

“I’m sayin’... do you think it could work?” His voice was softer now, like he wasn’t sure if he should even be asking. “You ‘n me... and Chris. In L.A.? Us havin’ a life there?”

Buck’s heart thudded so loud he was sure Eddie could hear it. “What about Sophie?”

Eddie’s face tightened, his expression clouding for a moment. He looked older all of a sudden, tired in a way Buck had never really seen.

“Breakin’ it off with her,” Eddie said, and his voice cracked slightly, “would be the most honest thing I’ve done in that relationship.”

Buck swallowed hard. “Do you think she knows?”

“I think she feels it,” Eddie said. “She’s smart. She knows somethin’ ain’t right. Hell, I think she’s just been waitin’ for me to stop pretendin’ I can be someone I’m not.”

He finally looked up at Buck again, and his eyes were glossy, glinting in the low moonlight.

“I ain't proud of it, Buck. But I’m done runnin’. I’m done tryin’ to make somethin’ work that don’t fit just 'cause it looks good on paper.”

Buck’s throat was dry. “So... what are you sayin’, Eddie?”

Eddie took a few steps closer, the gravel crunching under his boots. “I’m sayin’ I want this. Not just the sneakin’ around, not just late nights in the barn. I want you. I wanna wake up and see you makin' coffee in my kitchen. I wanna take Chris to school and come home to a house where you live too.”

Buck’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

“I’d give that to you in a heartbeat,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’d give all of it to you.”

Eddie smiled, that shy, lopsided one he never let anyone see. “I was hopin’ you’d say that. ‘Cause I’d sure like to be wherever you are, Buck. And if that means Los Angeles... then hell, maybe it’s time for this ol’ cowboy to trade Texas dust for California sun.”

They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, both a little stunned by the weight of what had just been said.

Then Buck laughed—a breathy, shaky laugh that came from somewhere deep in his chest.

“You really think you’d like L.A.?”

Eddie grinned. “I reckon I’d like it fine, long as you’re there.”

Buck stepped forward and slipped his arms around Eddie’s waist, pressing his forehead to the brim of that stubborn cowboy hat. “You’d be hell on the freeways.”

Eddie chuckled and wrapped his arms around Buck’s shoulders. “That’s what you’re for. Navigatin’ and keepin’ me outta trouble.”

“I’d follow you anywhere,” Buck whispered. “Even back here to this dusty farm.”

“Well good,” Eddie said, tilting his head down to kiss the side of Buck’s face, “’cause I’m plannin’ on followin’ you home.”

And with that, they walked back toward the barn—shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart.

Something real had shifted tonight. Not just a whispered promise in the dark. Not just heat and touches and stolen hours.

This was the beginning of something new.

Something true.

And for the first time in a long while, Buck believed that maybe—just maybe—they could have it all.

__

Buck had never been lucky. Not really. Not in the grand, cosmic sense. Maybe he'd had moments—small ones, fleeting flashes where things felt like they might finally go his way. But the truth was, luck had never stuck around long.

So when Eddie didn’t show up for training the next morning, Buck knew. Before anyone said a word, before the substitute instructor with too much beard and not enough charisma stepped in, he felt it deep in his chest.

Something had shifted.

The high from the night before—their walk, Eddie’s words, the promise of something real—had vanished like fog under the Texas sun. He should’ve known better than to believe in it, even for a second.

Still, he moved through the day as best he could. He sat through the morning lecture, went through drills with Brad #2 and Sam, joined the group meals and fake-laughed at someone’s half-decent joke. But it all felt dull, muted—like watching the world through a fogged-up window. And the ache inside him wouldn't go away.

He tried not to look for Eddie, but his eyes wandered anyway. Every time he caught himself scanning the lunch tables or the training yard, he clenched his jaw and looked away.

After dinner, when the sun had dipped low and painted the sky in streaks of orange and lavender, Buck did what he always did.

He walked up the hill to the red barn.

But Eddie wasn’t there.

No lantern light inside, no silhouette leaning against the doorframe, no sound of boots on hay or quiet laughter waiting just for him.

Buck’s steps slowed. His chest felt tight. Something was wrong.

He turned, gaze drifting toward the farmhouse. That’s when he saw it.

Eddie was sitting alone on the porch, elbows on his knees, head bowed like the weight of the whole damn world had settled on his shoulders. He wasn’t moving, not even when the wind rustled through the trees or the last few fireflies blinked awake.

Buck approached slowly, his boots crunching softly on the dirt path before he climbed the creaking steps of the porch. He sat down next to Eddie on the wooden bench, close but not touching.

Eddie didn’t look at him. Just kept staring out into the distance like maybe he could will it all away.

Buck's voice was quiet. “Everything okay?”

A pause. Long enough for Buck to already know the answer.

Then, Eddie’s voice—low, flat, and almost too calm. “She’s pregnant.”

Buck didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The words hit him like a punch to the gut, sucking all the air from his lungs.

“Sophie’s pregnant,” Eddie repeated, his voice cracking just slightly around the edges.

And Buck understood.

That strange hollow feeling he'd carried all day—the ache he hadn’t been able to name—it made sense now.

Eddie wasn't going to leave a pregnant woman. Not Eddie. Not the man who had rebuilt his whole life around protecting his son. Who still said “yes ma’am” to waitresses and helped old men fix fences just because it was the right thing to do.

Buck felt his throat tighten. He stared at the floorboards beneath his feet, blinking hard.

“I didn’t know,” Eddie murmured. “Not until this morning. She took the test last night and told me at breakfast. Said she was late and just had a feelin’.” He let out a shaky breath. “She was right.”

“I’m sorry,” Buck said, the words small and empty, because what else could he say?

Eddie finally turned his head to look at him, eyes bloodshot and tired. “Yeah… me too.”

Silence stretched between them again, heavy and bitter. The kind that didn’t need to be filled with words.

“She was so happy,” Eddie continued, voice distant. “Talkin’ about baby names already, what color she wants to paint the nursery. She kept holdin’ my hand, Buck. And all I could think about was how I’d promised you a future just a few hours earlier.”

Buck clenched his hands into fists. Not in anger. In hurt. In helplessness.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said softly, forcing the words out. “You’ve got a family. You’ve got responsibilities.”

Eddie shook his head. “But I do owe you. I owe you the truth. I told you I wanted a life with you. I meant it. And now... I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m drownin’.”

Buck finally looked up, met his eyes. “You’re gonna do the right thing. Because that’s who you are.”

“But what if it ain’t what I want?” Eddie’s voice was desperate now, cracked open and raw. “What if the right thing just feels like more lyin’? What kinda man does that make me?”

“The kind who tries too hard to fix everything for everyone,” Buck replied. “Even when it tears him apart.”

Eddie swallowed hard, his jaw tight. “I was ready to leave, Buck. I was ready to pack up and come to L.A. with Chris and never look back.”

“And now?” Buck asked, almost afraid to hear it.

“Now I feel like I’m bein’ pulled in two,” Eddie whispered. “And I don’t know which part of me I’m allowed to listen to.”

Buck didn’t say anything at first. He just sat there, trying not to break under the weight of it all.

Then he placed a hand gently on Eddie’s knee. Not to pressure him. Just to ground him.

“When you figure it out,” Buck said, voice rough, “I’ll be wherever you need me to be. Even if it’s not next to you.”

Eddie blinked fast, his eyes glistening. “You’d really do that? Walk away?”

Buck’s smile was sad. “I didn’t come to stay, Eds. That was never the plan anyway.”

The night air turned cooler. The stars blinked awake above them.

They sat together in the quiet, two men on a porch in the middle of nowhere, hearts full of love with nowhere to put it.

Chapter Text

The wedding was in two weeks.

Buck’s camp ended two days before the ceremony, but Eddie—God, Eddie—had booked him a hotel in town and begged him to stay until after the wedding. Just one last thing, he’d said. Just one more favor. Like Buck could really say no to that.

The final days of training were strange, surreal even. He barely saw Eddie, and when he did, it was only in passing—a quiet nod, a small, sad smile that never reached their eyes. No more secret meetings in the red barn. No more soft laughter in the dark. Just… silence.

He spent most of his time now with Brad #2 and Sam. They didn’t ask questions. They knew something had shifted, but they respected his quiet. They talked about dumb stuff—LA traffic, protein bars, the best post-workout beer—and never once asked about Eddie.

Then, four days before the wedding, his phone rang.

“May,” Buck answered, his voice barely above a whisper. It sounded as tired as his heart felt. He lay down in the grass behind the Camp, the sun dipping low in the sky, turning everything gold.

“Buck!” May’s voice came through loud and sharp. “You’ve been ignoring me for weeks. I swear to God—are you alive?”

Her voice was half irritated, half anxious. Buck couldn’t tell which part was winning. Probably both.

He exhaled slowly, staring up at the cloudless Texas sky. “I’m in love.”

There was a beat of silence, then a flurry of noises on the other end—gasping, shuffling, and finally a high-pitched squeal. “You’re WHAT? Buck! Oh my God, tell me everything. Who is he? Is it someone we know? Do I know them?”

Her excitement was almost infectious. Almost. He even smiled for a second, weak and worn out, but genuine.

Then the reality slammed back in, and his smile faded.

“He’s getting married, May. In four days.”

The silence this time was heavier. Thicker.

“…I’m sorry, what?”

“He’s getting married. To his fiancée. And she’s pregnant.”

“Oh…” Her voice dropped like a stone in water. “Buck, no.”

“I love him, May. I think I really do. But he’s not gonna leave her. He can’t. Not when there’s a baby coming. And honestly, I don’t think I could ask him to.”

There was a long pause before May spoke again—soft, fiery, determined.

“Buck. Buckley. You are Evan fucking Buckley. You could have anyone. Men, women, cowboys, straight guys in denial—whoever. You don’t settle for heartbreak in some backwoods town.”

He let out a broken laugh that turned into a quiet sniffle as the tears came again. “You’re sweet. But I don’t think I get to win this one.”

“Fuck that,” she snapped. “You deserve to be someone’s everything, Buck. Not their secret. Not their mistake.”

He rubbed at his face, trying to hold himself together. “I know. I do. But I can’t change what is.”

There was silence again—May was never great with tears, not Buck’s. She always wanted to fix things.

Then she said gently, “What do you need me to do?”

“Just…” Buck swallowed. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone. I mean it, May. Not Maddie, not Chim, not Bobby. No one.”

“I—” she hesitated. “You sure you don’t want Maddie to know?”

“I’m sure. Not yet.”

May sighed on the other end. “Okay. I promise. Cross my heart.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“I love you, Buck.”

“I love you, too.”

“And you better come home soon, or I’m flying down there and dragging your dramatic ass out of Texas myself.”

He gave a half-laugh. “Soon.”

He hung up, letting the phone rest against his chest, his eyes still fixed on the sky that was slowly turning purple with dusk. Soon, he’d be back in LA. The wedding would be over. This chapter would be done.

Eddie would be done.

__

Three days until the wedding…

The final day of camp wasn’t really a training day anymore. No drills, no morning runs, no team-building exercises under the beating sun. The usual chaos had quieted into something softer, more reflective. People moved slower, conversations drifted, and everywhere you looked, there was a mix of relief and sadness—like everyone knew something was ending, even if they weren’t quite ready to let go.

After breakfast, the goodbyes began.

Suitcases thudded onto gravel. Boots shuffled. Laughter mingled with the occasional choked-up voice as friendships forged in sweat and heat were packed away alongside uniforms and keepsakes. One by one, campers were loaded into overstuffed shuttle buses bound for the airport, their exhausted faces pressed against foggy windows, waving to the folks they were leaving behind.

But not Buck.

He didn’t have a bus to catch. No shuttle waited with the engine humming. He just stood there with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, watching the dust clouds roll behind each departing vehicle. His heart felt heavy, anchored to a place he hadn’t meant to fall in love with—not really. And not just the land. Not just the big skies and long roads.

No. He’d fallen for the people. For one person.

Buck wasn’t flying out today. Eddie had insisted—no, pleaded—that Buck spend one last night at the Díaz house. Said it would mean a lot to Chris. Said it was the least they could do. Buck hadn’t argued, though the idea of sleeping under that roof—with her there, and Eddie not quite his—was almost too much to stomach.

Tomorrow morning, he’d move to a hotel in town. Something quiet, clean, distant. Just for two nights before his flight out of Texas. Two more sleeps. Two more evenings with the Díaz family. Two more days pretending like none of it mattered.

Then, finally, he could leave.

And maybe—maybe—start to breathe again.

__

Most of the Busses had already left when Buck saw Eddie’s truck roll down the gravel road, dust kicking up behind the wheels. He hadn’t expected him to come this early—hell, he hadn’t expected Eddie to come himself at all. Yet there he was, arm draped casually over the open window, dark curls messy from the wind, eyes hidden behind those damn aviators.

Buck shouldered his bag and walked slowly toward the truck, the last of the camp buildings fading behind him. The morning air was heavy with goodbye.

Eddie didn’t get out. He just leaned over and opened the passenger door. “C’mon, Buckley,” he drawled, voice low and rough like gravel under boots. “Don’t got all mornin’.”

Buck slid in without a word.

The silence in the truck wasn’t awkward. It was full—of things they couldn’t say, of things Buck wasn’t sure he wanted to hear. Eddie kept his eyes on the road, one hand gripping the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh.

“You could’ve sent someone else,” Buck finally said.

“Could’ve,” Eddie said. “Didn’t.”

That was it. No explanation. Just the soft sound of the tires humming along the road and the low twang of a country song playing on the radio.

⸻

Sophie greeted them both at the door, beaming like it was any other day. Her dress was lemon yellow, her bump didn’t show, of course not she was only a few weeks, but Buck checked anyway. She kissed Eddie quickly on the cheek before turning to Buck with open arms.

“Buck, you’re finally done with camp! I swear, it’s like you disappeared off the face of the earth, these past few weeks.”

He chuckled, hugging her briefly. “It kind of felt like that.”

“Well,” she said, stepping back, “you’re here now. And you’ve got a room upstairs. Chris is dying to see you—he’s been counting the days.”

Chris came barreling around the corner right on cue. “Buck!”

“Kiddo!” Buck dropped his bag and opened his arms just in time to catch the full-body tackle hug. Chris wrapped around him like a koala, legs and all.

“You’re staying with us tonight?” Chris asked, eyes wide with excitement.

“Yup. One last night before I head out tomorrow to the hotel.”

Chris’s face fell slightly. “Can’t you stay here for the wedding?”

Buck looked up, meeting Eddie’s eyes briefly. “I think it’s better if I don’t. But I’ll come to the wedding.”

⸻

Chris insisted on showing Buck every tiny change on the farm. The new fence. The fresh hay. The calf that had been born a week back. Buck played along, letting the kid pull him around the fields like he’d never seen grass or dirt before. He laughed more that morning than he had in weeks.

Eddie was around. Watching from the porch. Helping Sophie with groceries. Fixing a latch on the barn. But always just out of reach.

“Dad’s been kinda weird lately,” Chris said as they sat under the big oak tree out back. He was fiddling with a twig, breaking it into smaller and smaller pieces.

Buck tried to stay neutral. “Weird how?”

“Like… he smiles, but he’s not happy. You know what I mean?”

Buck nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

“Are you mad at him?”

That caught Buck off guard. “No, buddy. I’m not mad.”

Chris looked up at him with a piercing kind of understanding. “You’re sad though.”

Buck forced a smile. “Sometimes people just get sad when things don’t go the way they hoped.”

Chris looked back down. “That’s what I thought.”

⸻

Later, when Chris was off feeding the animals and Eddie had disappeared into the barn, Buck found himself in the kitchen with Sophie. She was slicing peaches for a cobbler, her movements rhythmic and calm.

“You’ve been good for him, you know,” she said without turning around.

Buck leaned against the counter. “I think it’s the other way around.”

She gave a soft laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re both just too stubborn to admit you’re good for each other.”

Buck blinked. “Sophie…”

She set down her knife and looked at him. “I’m not blind, Buck. I see the way he looks at you. The way you look at him.”

He couldn’t breathe.

“I used to think I was the one who could fix him,” she said softly. “But I’m starting to realize he was never really broken. Just… lost.”

Buck swallowed. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” she said, “if he ever finds the courage to do what he really wants… I hope you’re still around to see it.”

„Sophie…“

„I don’t want to know, Buck. I am not going to leave him. I need him here with me when the baby comes and anyway, I love him. But I won’t stay here and act like I am stupid and can’t see through his lies. He’s still a good man.“

⸻

Dinner was lively. Buck, Eddie, Sophie, and Chris sat out on the back porch, the table full of grilled vegetables, roasted chicken, and fresh bread. The sunset painted the sky in pinks and purples, casting long shadows across the yard.

Eddie made Chris laugh until he snorted milk out of his nose. Sophie told a story about a wild chicken chase. Buck laughed, smiled, played the part.

But underneath it all was the current. The humming tension. Every time his eyes met Eddie’s, it lingered just a second too long. Every time their hands brushed, the world narrowed to that single point of contact.

They didn’t touch. Didn’t speak of anything heavier than cornbread or Chris’s latest obsession with astronomy. But it was there.

After dinner, Chris insisted on showing Buck his telescope. They lay in the grass behind the house, pointing at constellations. Eddie joined them, sitting cross-legged nearby, his gaze more often on Buck than the stars.

“Remember when we saw that shooting star last year?” Chris asked.

“I remember,” Eddie said.

“Did you make a wish?”

Eddie smiled. “Yeah.”

“Did it come true?”

He looked over at Buck, who was already watching him, eyes soft and unreadable.

“No,” Eddie said. “Not really.”

⸻

It was almost midnight when the house quieted. Chris was asleep. Sophie had gone to bed. Buck stood alone on the porch for a while, watching the fireflies blink lazily in the tall grass.

The screen door creaked behind him. He didn’t turn.

“Room’s ready upstairs,” Eddie said, voice low, accent thick in the quiet. “Fresh sheets. Thought you might want a shower before turnin’ in.”

Buck nodded. “Thanks.”

Eddie lingered. “You uh… need anything?”

Buck finally turned to him. “Yeah. But nothin’ you can give me.”

Eddie’s face tightened. He looked down, then back up, jaw working like he was chewing on something bitter. “I didn’t mean for any of this—”

Buck cut him off gently. “I know.”

They stood there for a long moment.

Then Eddie stepped forward and placed a hand on Buck’s shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough.

“Sleep tight, Buckley,” he said, voice nearly a whisper.

“Goodnight, Eds.”

⸻

The room was small but warm, the bed already made, a folded towel on the dresser. Buck sat on the edge, heart heavy.

He looked out the window. The barn in the distance. The big oak tree. The stars scattered like glitter above the fields.

In three and a half day, he’d be gone.

But for now—just one more night—he was here. In this house. With these people. With him.

And somehow, that were not allowed to destroy him.
__

Two days until the wedding…

The hotel was… ordinary. A nondescript three-star room with two beds, generic art on the walls, a low hum of the hallway coming through the thin door.

With only two days left until the wedding, reality was closing in. But instead of excitement, the air had grown heavy with finality. Eddie’s family was rolling into town—relatives, photographs, last-minute preparations—and suddenly there was no time left. No evenings for quiet; no stolen moments in the barn. Just obligations.

Buck had one small reprieve: Chris would come by tomorrow to spend some time with him. A sliver of warmth in the closing days.

For now, though, he lay on his bed for hours, motionless. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to face Eddie—or anyone else.

His headphones were his only shield. He pressed “shuffle,” drowning out the world with his favorite songs. And it worked, mostly—until that familiar, gentle melody broke through.

Through your eyes I see
A smile you bring to me
To your joy, I tether

Buck didn’t move much. But he felt the song like a weight settle in his chest, pulling at him. Every lyric hit him like a dart—vulnerable, raw, painfully perfect.

He lay still. Staring at the ceiling. Feeling torn apart.

And your dearest fantasy
Is to grow a baby in me
I could be a good mother
And I wanna be your wife
So I hold you to my knife
And I steal your letter

When the chorus came again, Buck ripped the earbuds from his ears, letting the music fade into silence before he darted out of the room.

He threw on his jacket, laced up his sneakers, and headed out into the late afternoon. He didn’t know what he’d do, but he had to move. He needed air. He needed every part of his body to hurt so his heart would stop.

The corridor lights reflected off the glass as he ran through the parking lot, heart pounding, legs moving before his mind could catch up. Sweat pricked at his skin, the night air sharp in his lungs, and for the first time all day, he felt something besides fear.

He had to clear his head.

__

One day until the wedding…

It was just after lunch the next day when someone knocked on the door of Buck’s hotel room—a door he hadn’t opened all day. He hadn’t gone down to eat. Hadn’t showered. Hadn’t done anything but lie still, hoping to out-sleep the ache in his chest.

The knock pulled him from the heavy quiet like a rope tugging underwater.

Buck dragged himself out of bed, every limb aching with exhaustion—not the physical kind, but the kind that settled deep in the bones. The kind that only heartbreak knew how to carve.

Without even bothering to check through the peephole, he opened the door.

Chris stood there, framed by the dim hallway light, eyebrows pinched with concern. He blinked once. Then his eyes widened.

“Buck—what the heck happened to you?”

Buck blinked slowly, confused for a second before glancing down at himself. His hoodie was twisted, his sweatpants wrinkled, his face pale and unshaven. He probably looked like he’d been hit by a truck. Emotionally, he had been.

“Hey, big guy,” Buck said with a tired smile, trying to inject a little warmth into his voice. “I just… slept a little.”

Chris raised one brow in a way that reminded Buck a little too much of Eddie. “Until three o’clock in the afternoon?”

His voice wasn’t accusatory, exactly—just skeptical. Worry simmered behind the words, and Buck could feel it. Still, he only shrugged.

“Guess I needed it.”

He didn’t want to explain, didn’t want to talk about how his heart felt like it had been hollowed out and filled with smoke. He didn’t want to say that he had nothing left to hold onto, or that he’d spent the entire night staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers.

Chris hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward, peering into the dim hotel room behind him.

“You didn’t even open the curtains.”

“Nope.” Buck rubbed the back of his neck, forcing another weak smile. “But now that you’re here, I’m wide awake. So… what are we doing today?”

Chris’s face lit up a little, and that alone was enough to make Buck feel like maybe he could survive the next hour. Maybe.

“Well,” Chris said, “I brought snacks, and I made a list of things we should do before you leave Texas.”

Buck’s eyes softened, and he opened the door wider.

“Sounds like a plan, boss. Come on in.”

Chris walked past him with the confidence of someone who had never doubted he’d be welcomed.

They walked to the little family fun center a few blocks away. Buck bought them both ridiculous neon-colored slushies and loaded a card with more credits than any kid should be trusted with. Chris made a beeline for the basketball hoops, trash-talking Buck the entire way.

“You’re gonna lose,” Chris said with that smug nine-year-old confidence. “You might be tall, but I’ve got better aim.”

“That so?” Buck said, raising an eyebrow. “You forget I was literally trained to handle fire hoses under pressure.”

Chris laughed. “Yeah, but this is different. Arcade hoops are a science.”

They played round after round, traded off at skee-ball, and even took a few turns in the racing simulators—where Chris beat him twice. Buck let himself relax. For a few hours, he forgot about the ache in his chest, the way Eddie hadn’t so much as texted him since camp ended, or the ever-ticking clock counting down to the wedding.

Then, they ended up at a picnic table outside the arcade, gnawing on slices of greasy pizza under the late afternoon sun. The conversation wandered from school to horses to the video game Chris wanted for his birthday.

And then Buck, maybe foolishly, maybe because he just needed to know, asked:

“So… how are things with Sophie?”

Chris’s face lit up. “Good! Really good, actually.” He took another bite of pizza, chewing enthusiastically before continuing. “She’s awesome. Like, really awesome. She lets me help with everything—wedding planning, picking stuff for the baby. She even lets me test the playlist for the reception.”

Buck managed a smile, though it wobbled. “Sounds like she’s pretty great.”

Chris nodded, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “She treats me like I’m already hers, you know? Like, not just Dad’s kid she has to deal with. It’s more like I’m… like I’m her kid, too.” He paused, like he wasn’t sure if he was saying too much. “I mean, I still miss my mom, and Sophie knows that. But she’s not trying to replace her or anything. She’s just there.”

Buck looked down at his half-eaten slice, suddenly very aware of the tightness in his throat.

“I’m really happy they’re getting married,” Chris added, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “And the baby? I think I’m gonna be a good big brother.”

Buck swallowed. The words stung, even though they weren’t meant to. He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I think you will be, buddy. The best.”

He pushed the rest of his slice away and leaned back on the bench, looking up at the slowly clouding sky. He wanted to be selfish. He wanted to scream, But what about me? What about everything your dad and I shared? But instead, he smiled through the hurt, because Chris was happy. And if Chris was okay—truly okay—then maybe, maybe Eddie would be okay too. And maybe that had to be enough.

They played one last round of air hockey before Buck got the text.

Sophie: Outside the hotel. Let me know when Chris is ready. 😊

Buck showed it to Chris, who was already gathering his things. “She said I could stay for dinner, but I think she’s tired. Baby stuff, you know.”

“Right,” Buck said softly, standing.

As they exited the arcade, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a soft orange hue across the sidewalk. A silver SUV waited by the curb.

Sophie stood outside the driver’s door, her silhouette framed by the low light. Her maternity dress fluttered slightly in the breeze, and she looked radiant—glowing, really—in a way that made Buck’s stomach turn.

“Buck,” she said, smiling with just a hint of tension. “Good to see you.”

“You too,” Buck replied, forcing warmth into his voice.

Chris jogged past him and hugged her waist. “Sophie, Buck let me drink two slushies and I totally destroyed him at Mario Kart.”

Sophie chuckled and smoothed his hair. “Two slushies, soes that mean I get you right in the sugar high?”

Chris flushed. “No, I used that to destroy Buck of course.”

She laughed, kissing the top of his head. “Yes, of course.”

Then she looked back up at Buck.

“Thank you,” she said, sincerely. “For today. He really needed this.”

Buck nodded, his throat dry. “Anytime.”

She opened the car door, but paused. “You’ve been… good to him. To both of them. I mean that.”

There was no venom in her voice, but there was something. Some distance. Maybe a subtle undercurrent of warning. Maybe just discomfort. She wasn’t cruel—but she knew. Or maybe she felt something. Buck wasn’t sure.

Chris climbed into the car, and Buck stepped back.

“We probably won’t have time to talk tomorrow and since you leave after the wedding. I wanted to say good bye.” Sophie coughed softly. “Take care of yourself Buck,” She added quietly. Not unkind, but firm. Then she got in and closed the door.

Buck stood on the curb until the taillights faded from view.

He stayed there, alone, long after the sun had disappeared, and whispered into the night:

“You too.”

__

The hotel room was dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of a single lamp on the bedside table. Buck sat on the edge of the bed, his suitcase nearly packed, his phone resting loosely in his hand as he mindlessly scrolled. He’d already texted Maddie to let her know she could pick him up at the airport tomorrow night. He’d promised May—sworn, even—that he wouldn’t do anything stupid. He just had to get through the next twenty-four hours.

That should’ve been easy.

And then, a knock.

Buck sighed loudly, his thumb hovering over the screen before he tossed his phone aside. He assumed it was housekeeping again, ignoring the Do Not Disturb sign he’d hung out hours ago. Maybe someone forgot a wake-up call, or maybe they were here to check the mini fridge. He didn’t care. He just wanted to be alone.

He padded barefoot across the carpet, yanked the door open—and froze.

Eddie stood there, shoulders slightly slumped, hands in the pockets of his jeans. His hair was messier than usual, like he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion—but still not as hollow as Buck’s.

“Hey,” Eddie said, quiet, tentative. His voice was low and tired, but still carried that warm, Southern drawl that always made Buck’s chest ache. “Can we talk?”

Buck blinked. His stomach twisted painfully, and for a second, he glanced over Eddie’s shoulder like he half-expected Sophie or a firing squad to be standing behind him.

No one was.

“Talk?” Buck echoed, throat dry. “Sure. Yeah. Come in.”

He stepped aside without another word, letting Eddie walk past him into the room.

Eddie hesitated at first—like even being there broke a rule—but eventually crossed the threshold and stood just inside the door, taking in the half-zipped suitcase on the bed, the scattered socks, the neatly folded uniform shirt on the chair. The last traces of Buck preparing to disappear.

Buck closed the door gently behind them, then leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest like a shield.

Eddie didn’t sit. He just turned to face him and said, in that low, rough Texas voice, “You really leavin’ tomorrow?”

Buck nodded. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncertain.

“I, uh…” Eddie glanced down at the floor, then back up, his eyes soft. “I saw Chris earlier. He had a real good time today. Said y’all played air hockey, ate pizza like it was goin’ outta style.”

Buck’s lips twitched. “He wiped the floor with me. Twice.”

Eddie chuckled, just a little. “Sounds 'bout right.”

Another silence. This one longer. Deeper.

Buck pushed off the door, suddenly restless. He moved to the suitcase and zipped it closed with more force than necessary. “If you’re here to say goodbye, Eds… you didn’t have to.”

Eddie’s jaw flexed. “I ain’t here to say goodbye.”

Buck turned slowly.

“You’re still comin’ to the weddin’ tomorrow, right?” Eddie asked, his voice hoarse but trying for casual, like it was just any other Saturday.

Buck nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ll be there. Chris was really excited about it.”

Eddie huffed a soft laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. That boy loves Sophie somethin’ fierce.”

There was a beat of silence.

A longer one.

A deeper one.

Buck swallowed hard. “Eds... why are you here?”

Eddie finally lifted his head, and in that moment, Buck saw it—the sorrow etched in every line of his face, the barely-contained storm behind his eyes. His voice dropped to a whisper, raw and breaking.

“I don’t wanna marry her, Buck.”

Time froze.

“I can’t,” Eddie whispered. “I don’t love her the way I’m supposed to. Not the way she deserves. I thought I could make it work for Chris, for the baby. I thought I could... live that life.” He stepped forward. “But it’s not the life I want.”

Buck’s breath caught.

Eddie’s next words tumbled out in a rush, like he’d been holding them in for years.

“Take me with you,” he pleaded. “Back to L.A. Let’s build somethin’, Buck. Somethin’ just ours. I ain’t got it all figured out, but I know—I know—that I wanna do it with you. Please.”

The room around them seemed to fade—dimming until the world became just the two of them and a future hanging by a thread.

And Buck—God, Buck—he didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing.

His heart thundered in his chest like it had been waiting for this moment his whole damn life.

And suddenly, his mind raced ahead.

He saw it.

Clearer than any dream.

Eddie and Buck standing in front of a modest two-bedroom house in East LA, keys jingling between them as they fumble to unlock the door for the first time. Chris running through the rooms, claiming each with wild excitement. Eddie painting the kitchen a weird greenish-blue color because “it feels like Texas skies at dusk.” Buck doesn’t get it—but he loves it anyway.

Late-night shifts and early-morning breakfasts. Falling asleep on the couch with Chris between them after movie nights. Eddie showing up at the firehouse with a box of tamales just because. Buck bringing home flowers without a reason. A rhythm slowly forming. Trust built in quiet, unspoken ways.

Christopher’s first big school project—a family tree. And he draws Buck and Eddie at the roots. “They’re both my dads,” he tells his class proudly. Buck cries in the parking lot for twenty minutes afterward. Eddie pretends he’s not crying too.

A golden retriever puppy named Salsa who chews everything and sleeps in their bed. Weekend barbecues. Eddie teaching Chris to drive in an empty parking lot while Buck yells instructions through the window. Eddie proposes under the jacaranda tree in their backyard. Buck says yes before he even finishes the sentence.

Their wedding: simple, backyard, beautiful. Hen officiates. May sings. Maddie and Chim toast them with tears in their eyes. Bobby walks Buck down the aisle. Eddie wears a bolo tie and boots polished to a shine. Buck never stops smiling.

Adoption papers signed. Buck officially becomes Christopher’s legal parent. The three of them have a quiet celebration with tacos and root beer floats. That night, Eddie wraps his arms around Buck in bed and whispers, “You made us whole.”

A lazy Sunday. Chris is older now, taller than Buck, almost out the door. Eddie’s got silver in his hair. Buck’s got laugh lines around his eyes. They sit on the porch, watching the sunset, fingers interlaced. Salsa, old now, snores at their feet. No words needed. Just quiet, unshakable love.

Buck blinked, the vision fading, but the feeling of it—God, the feeling—still warm in his chest like a hearth that had never gone out.

He looked at Eddie, who was still standing there, waiting, holding his heart out like it might fall apart in his hands if Buck didn’t take it.

Buck stood in front of him, the dim lamplight casting a soft glow over his face, washing out the color in his cheeks, and deepening the shadows under his tired eyes.

“You know it wouldn’t work, Eddie,” Buck said, his voice breaking ever so slightly, just enough for Eddie to notice. “Your life… Chris’s life… that baby’s life—it’s all here. With Sophie.”

A small, fragile smile tugged at Buck’s lips. It wasn’t the kind of smile meant to comfort—it was the kind of smile that only existed to keep him from crying.

“You’re gonna be okay, Eds. You’ll make it work. And if, one day—ten years from now—you look around and realize this isn’t what you wanted… then I’ll be there. I’ll wait for you. I swear. But you have to try, Eddie.”

He took a breath that felt like knives against his ribs.

“If you leave with me now, some part of you will always wonder what kind of life you walked away from. And maybe one day… maybe you’ll hate me for being the reason you didn’t find out.”

Eddie’s eyes were glassy, a storm brewing behind the warmth that had always lived in them.

“I could never hate you, Buck,” Eddie said, voice low, dragging with his drawl, slow like molasses. “Ain’t in me.”

His head dropped gently onto Buck’s shoulder, and Buck froze as he felt the warmth of Eddie’s tears soak into his shirt. They sat there for a long moment, unmoving, breathing in tandem, hearts beating like war drums pressed together.

Buck’s hand moved on instinct, brushing against Eddie’s cheek. He cupped it tenderly, thumb grazing just beneath the eye where the tears clung stubbornly. Then, gently, reverently, he lifted Eddie’s face to his.

They were so close Buck could feel the soft exhale from Eddie’s lips on his skin.

“Then live,” Buck whispered, “knowing you don’t hate me.”

And he leaned in, lips meeting Eddie’s in a kiss that didn’t tremble or shy away. It was deep and steady and heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. It was the kind of kiss that felt like a memory even as it happened. A goodbye masquerading as something more. A promise they’d never get to make.

When they pulled apart, Eddie lingered—foreheads almost touching—eyes shut like he could will the world to disappear for just a second longer.

Then he stepped back.

Buck saw the shift in him as Eddie pulled away, like a door slowly closing behind his eyes.

“Just…” Eddie started, voice already cracking. He took a deep breath, as if trying to find some kind of strength buried inside his chest.

“We could’ve been amazing,” he whispered. That southern twang in his voice—gentle and slow—made the words hurt even more.

And Buck knew. That was the end. There was no future for them, not in this life.

He stared at Eddie’s face, memorizing every feature—the dark lashes, the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, the laugh lines carved from years of loving Chris. The cheekbones that gave his face that fierce, quiet elegance. And his lips—the ones Buck had wanted, the ones he’d finally had, just briefly—and now never again.

He knew it. And Eddie did too.

Buck nodded, slow and deliberate, choosing his words with care, like he was wrapping a gift he would bury underground.

“We were amazing, Eds,” he said, voice thick. “Just… in our own way.”

Silence wrapped around them like a blanket neither of them wanted to be under.

Eddie looked down at his hands. His knuckles were white, clenched tight. Buck watched him, wanting to reach out, but knowing he shouldn’t.

“I was gonna say it,” Eddie murmured, barely audible. “That night. When I promised you a live in Los Angeles… I was gonna say I loved you.”

Buck swallowed, throat raw. He didn’t speak.

Eddie laughed—a hollow, heartbroken sound.

“And I thought—hell,” Eddie said, shaking his head. “I thought this is it. I found my person. After all the shit—the war, Shannon, the mess I’ve been—somehow, I got here. With you. And it felt easy, like breathin’. Like I finally got to be a whole damn man again.”

He looked up then, and Buck swore his heart cracked right in half at the sight of Eddie’s tear-streaked face.

“But then Chris started talkin’ about Sophie. And I saw the way she looked at him. Like he was hers. Like he belonged. And I thought—maybe God’s givin’ me one last chance to give my boy the kind of family I never had.”

Buck wiped at his own cheek, realizing only then that he was crying.

“I get it, Eds,” he whispered. “I really do.”

Eddie took a shaky step forward. “You gotta know,” he said, voice rough. “Even if I marry her. Even if we raise that baby and grow old on that damn porch swing she keeps talkin’ about—I’ll never stop lovin’ you.”

Buck couldn’t speak. His lips parted, but nothing came out.

Eddie took another step. “But I gotta try, Buck. For Chris. For this baby. For the man I’m tryin’ to be.”

Buck nodded, even as his body screamed no.

“You’ll be a great dad, Eds. Again. And you’ll love that baby like you love Chris. And you’ll… you’ll build somethin’ good with Sophie.”

There was a pause. Buck finally broke it, voice barely a whisper. “Do you love her?”

Eddie didn’t answer at first.

Then he said, quietly, “I love what she gives me. I love what she gives Chris.”

“But not like me.”

Eddie shook his head, tears shining in his eyes. “Not like you.”

Buck stepped back now. One small step. Just enough to set the distance.

“Then go love her in the way you can,” he said gently. “And when you hold that baby in your arms and he calls you ‘Daddy’ for the first time, remember this: you chose right. You chose love. Just a different kind.”

Eddie looked down, breathing ragged. Then he nodded.

“You’re somethin’ else, Cowboy,” he said. “You always were.”

And Buck smiled, broken and soft. “You too.”

They stood there, both unsure what the next moment should be. No final kiss. No grand gesture. Just two men, standing in the ruins of something beautiful.

Buck stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Eddie one last time. Eddie buried his face in Buck’s neck.

They stood like that for a long time.

Then Eddie pulled back.

“I gotta go,” he whispered.

Buck nodded. “Yeah.”

Eddie reached for the doorknob, hand trembling.

“Goodbye, Buck.”

“Goodbye, Eds.”

And with that, Eddie opened the door and stepped out.

Buck stood there long after it clicked shut, staring at the empty space where Eddie had been.

He sat down on the bed slowly. There was nothing left to say. No more to feel.

But in the quiet of the hotel room, he whispered one last thing.

“I’ll still wait.”

Not a promise. Not a plea.

Just a truth. Spoken into the dark.

__

Eddie married Sophie on that hot September day.

Buck just stayed long enough to hear their marriage vows, his eyes were on Eddie the whole time, he looked content enough, he decided, Eddie looked content enough with the life he had now, the one he would have, without him.

One last look to Chris who smiled at him and waved with a laugh on his face. Buck waved back, but he couldn’t bring himself to smile.

He left after the ceremony without saying anyone goodbye, this wasn’t his life, it never had been, even when it was all he ever wanted.

His suitcase was already packed and waited in his hotel room for him, the same hotel room, where he thought, just hours ago, that they really might get their shot, but they didn’t.

He took a plane to Los Angeles a few hours later, when he came back, he didn’t tell anyone what happened, not even Maddie, they asked and he froze and that was it. May was the only one who would sometimes give him that pity look, because she knew, but she wasn’t allowed to talk about it. Ever.

He continued being a firefighter in LA and Eddie continued being a dad and a married man, with a child on the way in Texas.

It was fine. That was their lives, it had been their lives before they met, it was their lives in the short time period they got to know each other and it would be their life in 20 years when they will have forgotten one another.

It was fine, really.

__

Evan Buckley died at the age of 52 in a fire, unmarried and without kids. They were people that mourned for him, but there were no one to stay at his grave long enough to feel the silence settle, or to whisper his name once more into the wind. He was an uncle, a brother, a friend — perhaps even a son, though it was never entirely clear to whom. But he wasn’t really anyone’s. He was simply there, while he lived — and now, he was simply not.

Edmundo Diaz died a few weeks later in a car crash, father of three, divorced. He was drunk when he died — and high. He didn’t know Buck’s fate. He just knew something had happened and he couldn’t bear that knowledge. Sophie had remarried, but she was still kind enough, or modest enough, to organize the funeral. Not that he cared. He was gone. Just dead. Buried. Under the earth in a plain brown coffin.

They missed each other in life, but perhaps love finds its hour beyond time — where no paths need to cross, because all hearts return home.