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It’s late when the house finally settles.
Chris is asleep. The lights are off. The fan hums on low, stirring the air in lazy circles above the bed. Everything is quiet. Still. Safe.
Eddie’s not moving. Neither is Buck. Technically.
They’ve been sharing the bed since Eddie and Chris got back from Texas. No one talked about it. Buck was already living here. The couch situation had lasted all of a week before Eddie walked into the living room at midnight, rubbed at his face, and said, “You’re gonna hurt your back.”
Buck had blinked up at him from his ridiculous burrito cocoon of throw blankets, blinking like a startled animal.
“There’s space,” Eddie added, like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t offering something he hadn’t given anyone since—
Well. Since.
Buck didn’t question it. Just nodded, got up, and followed him down the hall like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like he’d done it a thousand times before.
That was five weeks ago.
They’re still doing it.
And it’s fine. Completely, absolutely fine.
They sleep facing opposite directions. No cuddling. No touching. Not on purpose, anyway. Buck occasionally starfishes. Eddie occasionally gets hit in the face by an errant elbow. One time Buck punched a pillow so hard in his sleep that it ricocheted off the headboard and nearly broke the sound barrier. Eddie said nothing. Just rolled over and pretended that was normal.
They’re adults.
Tonight, Buck’s quiet. Just breathing soft and even beside him. One hand tucked under his chin. The line of his back warm and steady where it curves toward the center of the bed.
Eddie’s still half-awake. Staring at the ceiling. Trying to remember if they’re out of coffee filters.
Then Buck shifts.
Rolls onto his side, close enough that Eddie can feel the heat of him. His knee brushes the blanket. His shoulder settles near Eddie’s arm.
And then, in a voice barely shaped by sleep—soft, loose, easy:
“Love you.”
It’s the kind of thing said with all the gravity of commenting on the weather. Like a sigh. Like a truth that lives somewhere deep in the marrow.
Eddie freezes.
Buck doesn’t move. Doesn’t even twitch. Just sinks deeper into the mattress and exhales like he’s safe here, completely unaware he just detonated Eddie’s central nervous system.
Okay.
Cool.
It’s fine.
He probably didn’t mean it. People say weird things in their sleep. It’s practically Buck’s hobby. Once, he mumbled for five full minutes about proper condiment placement in the fridge. Another time, he listed LA County fire stations by district, alphabetically, and then fell silent like he’d cast a spell.
This isn’t new.
Not technically.
Still, Eddie lies there. Eyes wide open in the dark. Brain sprinting in seven directions at once. Heart a little too loud in his chest.
He is not spiraling.
He is not spiraling.
He does not sleep for the rest of the night.
Buck is already in the kitchen when Eddie walks in the next morning.
Shirtless. Of course.
There’s music playing from his phone speaker—something with finger snaps and soft guitars, probably made by a band named after a piece of furniture or an obscure fruit. It’s far too chipper for someone who, by all logic, should be mortified to have sleep-mumbled a love confession last night. But no. Buck’s flipping pancakes like he’s auditioning for a brunch-themed rom-com, humming like he slept great. Like he doesn’t remember a damn thing.
Which he probably doesn’t.
Eddie, on the other hand, did not sleep. Eddie laid in bed for six consecutive hours, arms pinned to his sides like a corpse, running through every conceivable interpretation of “Love you,” including—but not limited to—romantic, platonic, sarcastic, and vaguely possession-related.
“Hey, you’re up,” Buck says, cheerful and shirtless and completely unaware. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
Eddie nods. Grunts. Tries not to look at him. Fails.
Ends up locking eyes with one of Buck’s nipples.
Immediately regrets it.
Remember he’s gay.
And in love.
Remember he wasn’t dealing with it, but he was ignoring it successfully. Had repression down to an art. Gold-medal levels of denial.
Now he’s having a staring contest with a nipple and losing.
Three pancakes are already stacked on a plate. Another one sizzles in the pan. Buck gestures toward them like he’s presenting an offering.
“Figured you could use something decent.”
“Why?”
“You looked like you didn’t sleep.”
Eddie blinks. “So I look tired.”
Buck pauses. Caught. “No—I mean. Not tired tired. Just… a little off.”
Eddie raises an eyebrow. Says nothing.
Buck fumbles, starts over. “You look like you didn’t sleep great, but you still look—fine. Good. You look good. Great.”
Eddie does not respond.
A pause stretches between them.
“You okay?” Buck asks, quieter now.
“Yeah,” Eddie says, flat. Precision-calibrated misery. The kind of lie that only works if no one looks at it too closely.
Buck glances over. Doesn’t push. Turns back to the stove.
They eat in silence.
Eddie chews like it might keep him from shattering. Buck eats like a man who definitely didn’t confess his love in his sleep and then whip up breakfast like nothing happened.
Then, without looking up:
“You sure you’re okay?”
Eddie nods.
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You haven’t insulted the music.”
Eddie doesn’t look up. Can’t.
“This sounds like something they play in hospital elevators,” he mutters. “Bad ones.”
Buck grins. Bright and full-body. The kind of smile that involves his whole chest—both nipples, tragically included.
“There he is,” he says, like that explains anything.
Eddie almost groans. Instead, he drowns his pancake in syrup and tries very hard not to think about the fact that the person sitting across from him said I love you in the dark and doesn’t remember. At all.
None.
Zero.
Eddie is going to combust.
And Buck—Buck just hums along to the next track, barefoot and golden and impossible.
Exactly eleven minutes into breakfast, Eddie opens his phone and types:
can you trust a love confession if the person saying it was asleep, doesn’t remember, and also made you pancakes
It happens again.
The very next night.
Eddie’s awake. Not on purpose. His body just hasn’t remembered how to turn off yet, and at this point, he’s not sure it ever will.
He lies still, spine locked straight against the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might finally give him answers. The fan spins lazily above him, throwing shadows across the room. He tracks each turn with the dull focus of someone trying not to feel anything at all.
Beside him, Buck breathes.
Soft and even. Warm. Familiar. Three inches away, like always. Close enough to feel. Close enough to ruin him.
Outside, the neighborhood hums. A car rolls by. Somewhere down the block, a dog barks once and goes quiet.
Then Buck shifts. Rolls toward him. Shoulder brushes Eddie’s arm.
And then—soft, low, like it’s slipping out before it can be stopped—he says it again.
“Love you.”
Eddie flinches.
Not violently. Just enough to feel it ripple through every nerve ending he has.
Buck doesn’t stir. Doesn’t open his eyes. Just exhales slowly and melts further into the mattress like he belongs there. Like he means it.
And maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t.
Maybe Eddie’s been lying awake for five weeks, building a future on something that was never real.
He stares up at the ceiling. His heart is doing something frantic in his chest. Loud. Uneven. Like it’s trying to escape before it gets crushed.
He doesn’t think. Just speaks.
“You can’t keep saying that stuff to me when you’re asleep,” he whispers.
Quiet. Bitter. Half-hoping Buck will hear him, half-praying he won’t.
Buck doesn’t move. Of course he doesn’t.
He’s asleep. And Eddie’s not. And everything else—everything that matters—is hanging in the space between them, suspended like breath.
Eddie turns away. Faces the wall. Pulls the blanket up to his chin and grips it with both hands like that might help.
It doesn’t.
He doesn’t sleep.
Again.
By morning, he’s half-convinced his body has developed a second heart. Just to keep up with the damage.
The next morning, Buck makes a frittata.
Which is worse.
Because pancakes you can throw together with a box mix and good intentions. But frittatas? Frittatas require planning. Chopped vegetables. Preheated ovens. Whisked eggs. They require care.
Which means Buck stood in the kitchen this morning—barefoot, probably humming to himself—and thought, You know what Eddie needs? Something that bakes at 375 and says I love you but I’m going to pretend I didn’t say it out loud twice in my sleep.
It’s manipulative, really.
Eddie walks in wearing a t-shirt that’s technically his but definitely smells like Buck. He doesn’t want to think about what that means. The line between theirs blurred sometime around week two, and Eddie’s been pretending not to notice ever since.
Buck’s already slicing into the frittata when he looks up. There’s a sprig of parsley on top.
Next to it on the counter, two glasses of orange juice—fresh-squeezed, judging by the halved fruit and the juicer in the sink.
Eddie blinks at it.
Then at Buck.
Who just smiles. Like this is normal. Like this is Tuesday.
Eddie does not smile back.
“You sleep better last night?” Buck asks, handing him a fork like they’re in some domestic fever dream and not the middle of a slow-motion emotional catastrophe.
Eddie shrugs. “Didn’t really keep track.”
“You were quiet.”
“You say that like I’m usually not.”
Buck hums. Unbothered. Takes a bite of his perfect little frittata square like nothing’s wrong. He’s halfway through his slice before Eddie even processes the smell of caramelized onion and betrayal.
This is fine.
He can live in this weird, liminal space where Buck does everything except acknowledge the one thing he already said—twice—out loud, in the dark, straight into Eddie’s unraveling brainstem.
Eddie eats mechanically. He doesn’t taste any of it.
Buck doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Just fills the silence with casual hums and commentary from the TV in the background.
“Traffic’s bad on the 10,” he says, like that’s helpful.
Eddie stares into his orange juice like it might give him a sign. Or a sedative.
Because here’s the thing: if Buck said it once, maybe it was a dream. A fluke. Sleep static.
But twice?
Twice starts to feel like the kind of thing Eddie isn’t going to recover from.
And he doesn’t know how to bring it up. Doesn’t know how to ask what did you mean by that without tipping his whole hand. Without showing just how thoroughly Buck’s voice has rearranged the furniture in his chest.
So he doesn’t say anything.
He finishes his frittata.
Buck refills his juice without asking.
And Eddie says, “Thanks,” like his lungs aren’t full of static.
It’s just after midnight.
The house is quiet. Lights off, curtains drawn. Even the street outside feels still, like it’s bracing for something.
Buck’s already asleep—one arm flung across the mattress, cheek squished against the pillow, mouth parted just slightly. His hair’s a disaster. His breathing’s slow. Steady. Peaceful.
Eddie’s wide awake.
Again.
He lies flat on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, heart pounding like he’s mid-call. He isn’t. He hasn’t done anything but exist in the heavy quiet of this room for hours. Still, his pulse thrums like it knows something’s coming.
It’s not sustainable.
He shifts, barely. Just enough to tighten the blanket over his chest. Just enough to remind himself Buck is there. Inches away. Warm. Solid. Breathing like none of this is complicated.
His hand twitches.
He doesn’t reach out. He can’t.
Because Buck is asleep, and Eddie’s not, and somewhere between those two states is a confession neither of them were awake for—but Eddie’s been carrying it like live ammunition anyway.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
It doesn’t help.
The silence is too loud. His head is too full. Every time he starts to drift, it hits him again. Love you. Over and over. A short circuit with no off switch.
He turns over. Away from Buck. Buries his face in the pillow.
Maybe if he stays still long enough, his body will get the hint. Maybe sleep will take pity on him.
Maybe—
“Eddie,” Buck mumbles. Voice rough. Sleep-soft. “S’wrong?”
Eddie freezes.
He didn’t mean to wake him. Didn’t even move that much. But Buck’s reaching out—fingers finding his arm, curling lightly around it, like that’s just what you do when someone’s not okay.
Eddie doesn’t answer.
Because if he opens his mouth right now, it’s going to come out messy. Loud. True.
Eventually, he manages, “Couldn’t sleep.”
Buck’s fingers tighten, just slightly. “Bad dream?”
“No.”
There’s a pause.
Then Buck shifts closer. Presses in like it’s habit. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to offer himself as a second blanket.
“Try and rest,” he murmurs. “I’m here.”
It’s soft. Gentle. An anchor dropped into Eddie’s already-overloaded chest.
It’s the worst thing he could’ve said.
Eddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just lies there, jaw clenched, every muscle wound tight enough to snap.
He stays that way until Buck’s breathing evens out again. Until he knows, for sure, that he’s asleep.
Then, barely a whisper. Not even sure he says it out loud:
“Love you.”
He hopes Buck’s asleep.
He needs Buck to be asleep.
Because if he hears it—if he remembers—
Eddie won’t be able to take it back.
The kitchen’s quiet.
Late. Safe. The kind of hour where words come out easier, or not at all.
Buck stands in front of the open fridge like he’s about to solve world peace with condiment arrangement. One hand grips the door. The other adjusts a bottle of mustard that’s—of course—in the side door.
Even though they’ve argued about that multiple times. Even though Eddie has, on several occasions, said the words “I swear to God, Buck, if you put the salsa in the door again, I will throw the entire fridge out of the window.”
Buck hums softly to himself, completely unbothered. The salsa is already in its assigned spot. The yogurt cups are aligned like tiny dairy soldiers. He’s not thinking about it. Just moving on autopilot. A muscle memory thing. A comfort thing.
Eddie leans against the counter.
Watching. Holding the edge like it might keep him steady.
“You said it again last night,” he says, voice quiet but clear.
Buck doesn’t look over. Just shifts the fridge door a little wider. “Yeah?”
“You did.”
A beat. Then Buck lets the door shut with a soft click. Turns to face him. Calm. Casual. Still holding a dish towel like it’s a shield.
“Didn’t think I was still doing that.”
“You are.”
Buck steps closer. Leans against the counter beside him, their arms just short of brushing.
“So… what do you think?”
Eddie exhales. Lets his eyes fall to the floor, then drags them back up. “Took me a while to come around. But yeah. Me too.”
Buck’s brow lifts. Hopeful. Tentative. “Really?”
Eddie nods. “Yeah.”
There’s a moment where neither of them move. Then a slow, quiet smile tugs at Buck’s mouth. Not smug. Not confident. Just—soft. Stunned, maybe. “Didn’t think you’d ever say that.”
“I thought it was just habit. Routine. But turns out, I was scared of what it meant if I gave in.”
Buck leans in slightly, like something invisible’s pulling him closer. “And now?”
Eddie looks at him. Really looks at him. “Now I know what I want.”
Buck nods, like he’s holding something back. “I’m proud of you.”
Eddie smiles, small but real. “Thanks.” A pause. “I love you.”
Buck malfunctions.
There’s no other word for it. His face goes completely slack. His mouth opens, then doesn’t close. His eyes do the blink-blink of someone whose brain just threw a 404.
“What,” he says, flat.
Eddie’s smile falters. “What?”
Buck blinks. Hard. Like he’s trying to force the world back into alignment. “What do you think we’re talking about here?”
Eddie frowns. “What do you think we’re talking about?”
Buck looks at him. Dead serious. Like he’s just been betrayed by the universe.
“The fridge,” he says. Horrified.
Eddie stares. Jaw slack. “What.”
“I thought you were talking about the fridge,” Buck repeats, and somehow makes it worse.
Eddie opens his mouth. Closes it. “You thought this was about condiments?”
Buck’s already scrambling. “You’ve been putting sauces in the wrong place for years. I thought you were finally—” He waves vaguely toward the fridge. “You know. Coming around.”
“To your condiment system?”
Buck winces, but doesn’t back down.
Eddie groans. Covers his face with both hands. “Oh my God.”
Buck, quieter now but with no less conviction, mutters, “The door’s still the most efficient option.”
Eddie drops his hands just enough to glare. “Buck. I said I love you.”
Buck freezes again.
Then blinks. Once. Twice. Runs a hand through his hair like that’ll help.
“Jesus, Eddie.” He exhales. “You can’t just say that while we’re talking about mustard.”
Eddie doesn’t respond right away. Just tilts his head. “You’re lucky I still mean it.”
Buck’s voice is a little rough now. “You do?”
Eddie nods. “Yeah.”
And something in Buck’s expression shifts—sharp edges softening, shoulders unspooling, something quiet settling into his face. “Okay. That’s good. That’s really good.”
They don’t move for a second. Just breathe in the space between them. Let it settle.
Then Eddie steps forward and kisses him.
It’s not perfect. Buck’s off balance. Eddie’s still mildly pissed about the mustard. But it’s warm. And real. And exactly right.
When they pull back, Buck rests his forehead against Eddie’s.
“…Hey,” he says, gently, like it’s a delicate negotiation. “Can we still put the mustard in the door?”
Eddie pulls back just enough to give him a look. “Absolutely not.”
Buck groans. Full-body. Tragic.
And kisses him again anyway.