Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Letter number one:

Dear Eddie Edmundo Diaz,

Yeah, this is getting serious, lol.
(You can tell because I used your full government name.)

Sorry I’m not texting.
I should write better. You deserve better than just some half-assed, half-drunk text messages anyway.

Okay so, I
Let’s start over.

I know you’re on the couch right now. Probably slipping lower by the second, all that Diaz stubbornness crumbling into sleep because you can’t let yourself rest properly. I know it would only take a few steps — I could just walk out of my room and find you. I could sit next to you and say all of this out loud.

But I guess... I just need to write this down first. Maybe so I can figure it out for myself.
Maybe because if I look you in the eyes right now, I’ll break apart before I even get the words out.

It hurts, Eds.
It hurts in a way I didn’t know a human body could survive.

When I heard your voice crack on the phone that day, when I heard you say Bobby’s name like it was something sacred slipping through your fingers —
My world caved in all over again.
I thought I knew what grief was. I thought I’d built up a tolerance for it, the way you do with smoke inhalation — a little more each time, until it doesn't burn you anymore.
But seeing you in pain?
That might be the worst thing I’ve ever had to endure.
It’s like...

(See? Even now I can’t get the words right.)

Eddie, I have things I need to say, but it’s like my body can’t survive my own words.
So I’m writing them down.
Maybe it’s easier this way. Safer, somehow.

I don’t want to be a burden. I know everyone is suffering right now. I know my pain isn’t more important than yours, or Christopher’s, or Hen’s, or Chimney’s, or Athena’s.
I know that.

I’m writing this letter to you because I know—
No.
I’m addressing this letter to you because you’re the only person I don’t feel like a burden with.

(Also, because I’m sending this letter to Texas and you’ll maybe never even read it. But if you do, maybe it’ll be easier to hear it from this distance.)

Eddie...
I feel so empty.
Like I stopped existing the second we lost him.

I tried, you know?
I tried so fucking hard to be strong. To hold everyone up like he would’ve wanted.
To keep the family afloat. To keep you afloat. To keep myself from drowning.

But I don't think I can survive this.
Not without you.

Yours,
Buck.

Tears blurred Eddie’s vision as he finished reading the first letter.
His hand trembled slightly as he set it down on the floor beside him. His gaze dropped to the pile of unopened envelopes addressed to him in Buck’s messy handwriting, and for the first time in hours, he let himself really feel it — all of it.

Buck had written to him almost every day since Bobby’s funeral.
This was only the first letter.
And it had already shattered him.

He had no idea Buck had been carrying this much pain.
Because the entire time Eddie had been in L.A. — when he had flown out the very next morning after Buck had called him, voice wrecked and shaking, to tell him Bobby was gone —
Buck had been a rock.
A fucking pillar.
For the entire 118. For Athena and the kids. For Maddie.
For Eddie himself.
Buck had held them all together with those broad shoulders of his, like he thought he could singlehandedly keep the world from falling apart just by standing tall enough.

Eddie had leaned on him.
Without even realizing it, he'd poured his grief straight into Buck’s chest.
And Buck had caught him, like he always did. Without complaint. Without hesitation.

Eddie swallowed hard, his throat tight and aching.
He felt sick with guilt now, thinking of Buck holding all of them up while he crumbled in silence.

He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly.
He was alone in the house — his house  — in El Paso, surrounded by boxes taped and labeled and ready for the move.
Christopher was out with his grandparents, soaking up one last day with them before the two Diaz boys packed up the car and drove back to Los Angeles.
Back home.

Because that’s what this was, now.
Home wasn’t this house.
Home was the people they loved.

Home was Buck.

Eddie ran a hand over his face, wiping at the tears that kept falling no matter how hard he tried to blink them back.
He thought about calling Buck.
God, he wanted to.
He wanted to tell him how sorry he was.
How much he loved him.
How Buck had never, not once, been a burden to him.

But he didn’t.
Because he could already hear Buck’s voice in his head — that frantic, stuttering panic he got when he thought he’d messed up —

“Ed-Eddie, no, please don’t read those, it’s stupid, really, it’s just old thoughts. You don’t have to. Please, Eds. Don’t apologize. I was happy to be there for you. You’re my best friend. You were there for me too.”

Eddie smiled wetly, closing his eyes.
He could see him pacing around him, trying to get those letters back. He could almost smell him, too — that mix of soap and sweat and something that was just pure Buck.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked at the envelopes in front of him.
He reached out and picked up the second one, turning it over carefully in his hands.

If Buck had poured his heart into these letters, the least Eddie could do was be brave enough to read them all.
To listen.
To understand.
To hold him the way Buck had always held him — without fear. Without judgment. Without letting go.

He slipped a finger under the flap of the second envelope and took a breath.

Letter number two:

Dear Edmundo Diaz,

Actually, I really don’t know why you don’t like your name, it’s kinda cool.
You've never told me why, also I never asked you properly, I think.
Anyway that’s not what I wanted to write about. Sorry.

I think I’m really bad at that. lol.
Writing letters like we’re two guys from the 80s, passing notes in class or something. I should’ve bought fancy paper, maybe some dramatic wax seals. Maddie would laugh her ass off.

Eddie, more seriously, I’m worried.
I’m actually terrified.
It’s like everyone that’s ever loved me has either left or died at some point.
I feel like... I don't know. But it doesn’t sit right with me, I guess.
Like I’m walking around with a target on my back. Like the second I let myself love people, the universe decides to snatch them away.
I know it’s stupid, and selfish, and not the kind of thing you’re supposed to think when everyone’s grieving. But it’s there anyway.

And I’m —
God, I’m so scared, Eds.
Not just for me, but for everyone else, too.

Have you seen Athena lately? I mean, I know you have.
She’s so mad at the world, Eddie. And I get it. She lost Emmett. And now Bobby.
I don’t know how you survive losing the love of your life twice.
Athena’s the strongest person I know. She stands so still. Like a damn mountain.
But you can see it in her face, in the way her hands tremble when she thinks no one’s looking.
It hurts, man. It hurts to see her hurting.

Hen’s trying. She’s always trying. Being the big sister, the glue.
But I don’t even know if she’s letting herself grieve properly.
And Chimney...
God, Chimney.
He’s walking around like a ghost. Like Bobby didn’t just save his life — he stole Chim’s right to die with him, too.
(Which is a crazy thing to think, I know, but grief makes people think crazy things.)
Maddie’s trying to be there for him but it’s like nothing gets through the guilt.

And me?
I’m the idiot trying to patch up the ship with duct tape.
Because that’s what Bobby asked me to do.
Because that’s what family does.
Because that’s what he would do.

But Eddie, without him here —
It’s like we’re all loose bricks without the mortar.
Bobby was the glue.
He’s the one that chose us.
He’s the reason you’re here.
(And okay, I admit it, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about it at first. lol. God, I was such a dick. I’m sorry for that, too.)
But Bobby knew.
He knew we would become something bigger than just a team.
He built this family brick by brick.
And now the walls are cracking, and I don’t know how to hold them up on my own.

I guess what I’m trying to say is —
I’m scared I’m gonna lose everyone.
Not just to death.
To distance.
To time.
To whatever this big empty thing is that Bobby left behind.
And if that happens...
I don’t know if I’ll survive it.

So yeah.
If you don’t stay in L.A after all this (which, for the record, I would completely understand — because it’s a lot, and I’m a lot)
I’m officially putting myself up for adoption.
(No offense to Chim, but I’m hoping Hen gets first dibs.)

Yours,
Buck.

Eddie needed to stand up and take a breath outside.

The air in the house felt too heavy, like it was sitting on his chest, like it was pressing all the grief out of him one slow heartbeat at a time.
He shoved open the door and stepped into the soft Texan afternoon, the letter still clutched tight in his hand like it might fly away if he let go.

Buck had never said any of those things to him.
Not ever.

They were Buck and Eddie.
Just two dumbass friends, drinking beer on Eddie’s stupid couch and not really talking about their feelings.
Sitting there, side by side, letting the silence fill the space where words probably should’ve gone.
Feeling each other's presence like some kind of lifeline, without ever daring to really call it that.

The only times they’d ever really talked —
Really laid themselves bare —
Had been after Eddie’s world cracked open.
After he got shot and made Buck Christopher’s legal guardian, like it was the most normal thing in the world to ask of your best friend.
After Shannon died, when Eddie’s grief had eaten him alive and Buck had sat in the wreckage with him, not asking for anything, not needing anything but for Eddie to breathe through it.
After Chris had surprised him with the clone of his dead mom and Eddie had completely lost it.

Buck had been there then too.
Every time Eddie’s heart broke, Buck had been there to catch the pieces.

But when it was Buck’s heart breaking —
When it was Buck drowning —
Eddie had been there, yeah.
Physically.
Showing up at his door, offering a beer, a dumb movie, a game to lose himself in.
But they never really talked talked.

Because Buck was Buck.
He smiled through it.
He laughed it off.
He told stupid jokes and made stupid faces and turned every heavy thing into something lighter just so Eddie wouldn't have to carry it.

Buck always talked.
But not like this.
Never like this.

And now Buck was being serious.
And Eddie hated it.
Not because Buck was finally opening up —
But because he wasn’t doing it face-to-face.
Because he was doing it in letters, in scribbled words on crumpled paper.
Because Buck was hurting, and Eddie wasn’t there to wrap his arms around him and squeeze until all the broken pieces fit back together again.

He wanted Buck there.
Sitting on that same stupid couch.
Wanted to reach for him.
Wanted to press Buck’s head into his chest and just hold him there until the shaking stopped.
He wanted to hug the pain away.
Because Buck was —
He was always the sun.
Even when Eddie’s world went dark, Buck burned bright enough for both of them.
And Buck deserved more.
Deserved more than Eddie sitting silently next to him, drinking beer and pretending it was enough.

But Eddie didn’t know how to be that person.
He didn’t know how to reach out without reaching too much.
He didn’t want to cross some invisible line, didn’t want to say something wrong, didn’t want to wreck whatever it was they had by needing more than Buck was willing to give.
Even now —
Even standing there with a letter that practically bled Buck’s heart into his hands —
Eddie didn’t know how to move without fucking it all up.

Buck and Eddie.
Best friends.
Silly firefighters.
The guys who cracked jokes on calls, who pranked each other until Hen and Chim threatened to lock them both in a supply closet.
The guys who ended every rough shift with beers and dumb TV and the kind of silence that said more than words ever could.
That was them.
That was safe.

But in the hard times?
In the real, bone-deep hurt?
It was different.
It was more.
It was always more.

And Eddie didn’t know if he was being a good friend anymore —
Or if he was just running.
Running because this felt way more complicated than friendship was supposed to feel.

Letter number three:

Dear Edmundo,

(Yeah I’m sticking with it now. You’re stuck with me calling you that for every letter, sorry not sorry.)

Today I keep thinking about Bobby.
Not like the big moments.
Not the speeches or the talks where he tried to steer me back on track (even though he gave a lot of those and I probably needed every single one).
But the small stuff.

Like the way he used to look at me after bad shifts.
Not even saying anything — just giving me this look, like he saw right through whatever bullshit I was pulling.
I could’ve been standing there, telling everybody I was fine, making some dumb joke, acting like I wasn’t bleeding on the inside — and Bobby would just...know.
One look. That’s all it took.

God, I used to hate it.
I used to feel so exposed, like he could see every crack I was trying to cover up.
But now?
Now I miss it.
I miss being seen like that.
I miss somebody noticing even when I didn’t want them to.

I even miss him being pissed at me.
Like that time I (and okay, listen, this sounds bad) stole the firetruck to go hook up with that girl.
(You remember. You didn’t even know me yet but you’ve heard the story, probably from Chim in like ten different versions.)

Anyway, Bobby lit into me like I was some teenage kid.
He didn’t even yell that loud, but somehow it was worse because it was so disappointed.
(And you know how much that sucked, right? Disappointment always cuts way deeper than yelling.)
But underneath all that anger, there was still love.
He wasn’t mad because he hated me.
He was mad because he cared.
Because he thought I could be better.
Because he thought I was worth better.

I don’t think I ever told him how much that meant.
How much it changed things for me.
Having someone actually stay even after seeing every ugly, messy, impulsive part of me.

Me with my heart in pieces and my head a mess, and Bobby just sitting there, keeping me company in the middle of my own stupid disaster.
Like it was the easiest thing in the world to stay.

Maybe grief is just missing all the little moments you didn’t realize were saving you until they’re gone.
Maybe it’s wishing you could go back and say, Hey, I noticed. Hey, thank you. Hey, you mattered so much.

I don’t know.

Anyway.
I just miss him.
I miss all of it.

Yours,
Buck

Eddie folded back the letter into the envelope.

At that point he just wanted to hide under his covers in his bedroom and cry everything out like a kid.

Buck deserved so much more.
So much more love.
And Bobby — Bobby had been the one giving him that love Buck deserved.
Bobby had been the one giving love to each one of them.
Holding them all together even when they didn’t realize they were falling apart.
And now he was gone.

Eddie sat there, letter clutched in his hand, like maybe he could press it to his chest and feel Buck’s heartbeat through the paper.
Feel that stubborn, reckless, beautiful heart still beating, still fighting, even when everything around them felt cracked wide open.

He closed his eyes and let the memories come in waves.

He remembered it — those Bobby-Buck moments.
He'd seen them.
He’d seen the way Bobby would put a steadying hand on Buck’s shoulder after a tough call, just a quiet pressure that said, I see you. I’m proud of you.
The way Buck would light up under it — not big, not loud — just this soft kind of blooming in his chest that Eddie could feel without even meaning to.
He remembered the time Buck messed up — really messed up — and how Bobby hadn’t given up on him.
How he stuck.
How he forgave.
How he taught Buck what forgiveness even looked like when you didn’t think you deserved it.

Eddie had noticed it all.
But he never said anything.
Never found the words.
Because they were just a family, right?
That’s what families did.

Only now, sitting here with Buck’s heart bleeding across eleven envelopes, Eddie realized maybe he should have said something.
Maybe Buck needed to hear it out loud.
That he was loved.
That he was worth staying for.
That Bobby had seen the best of him, even when Buck didn’t believe it himself.
And so had Eddie.
Eddie had seen it too — every reckless, loyal, stubborn, golden part of Buck — and loved him for it, quietly, stupidly, in the spaces between everything they never said.

Eddie wiped his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, breath shaking.
He wasn’t even halfway through the letters yet.
He didn’t know how he was supposed to survive the rest.

But for Buck — for everything Buck was brave enough to write down — he would.
He owed him that much.
At least that much.

Letter number four:

Dear Eddito (yeah, I’m unpredictable),

Today I thought about that one shift where Bobby decided he was gonna grill for all of us.
Like it was a Sunday backyard barbecue and not a firehouse kitchen.

Man, he was serious about those burgers.
Like, thermometer-in-hand, lecturing-us-about-salmonella serious.
And you and me, we were just standing there trying not to laugh because Hen kept giving us these warning looks like do not mess with Bobby’s sacred grill, idiots.

Obviously, we messed with it.
(Obviously.)

Remember how we kept sneaking the burnt ones onto each other's plates?
Like it was a competition to see who could pretend it tasted fine the longest. Chimney was commenting like we were live on TV.
I was so sure I had you, Eds.
I was even talking about how “the smoky flavor really brought out the umami” or whatever crap I was spewing.
But you? You ate three blackened hockey pucks without blinking.
Like a goddamn champion.
And then you just smirked at me across the table like you knew the whole time.
(You did, didn’t you? You always do.)

The best part was Bobby watching us out of the corner of his eye, deadpan, flipping perfect burgers and letting us be absolute idiots.
He totally knew.
He always knew.

I guess that’s what real family does, right?
They let you be dumb and annoying and stubborn and still love you anyway.
Bobby did that for us.
For me.

I miss that.
I miss him.

But today, thinking about you trying not to laugh while chewing literal charcoal —
I smiled.
Even if it hurt a little.

Yours,
Buck

Eddie let out a snort he couldn't hold back.
Yeah, he remembered that day.
He had absolutely eaten three burnt-to-a-crisp burgers just to see the look of outrage on Buck’s face when he finally gave up first.
God, Buck was so competitive and so bad at hiding it.

For a second, Eddie forgot about the heaviness sitting on his chest.
For a second, it was just him, Buck, Chimney hipping them, Bobby's terrible grill lectures and Hen’s exasperated eye rolls.

He wiped his face, realizing he was smiling through his tears.
Buck had that power over him — even in grief, even in a letter.

Letter number five:

Dear Edmundo,

(Yeah, back to being serious I guess. Or trying.)

I was thinking about Christopher today.
(Well, when am I not thinking about him, honestly.)

I kept replaying that BBQ day at the station.
He was, what, eight? Tiny but already so full of fire — no pun intended.
And Bobby showed up holding that tiny toolbelt he bought just for Chris.
Like, a real one. No plastic junk, actual pockets and loops and everything. Heavy for a little kid.

He got down on one knee, clipped it around Chris’s waist, and said,
"Welcome to the 118, probationary firefighter Diaz."
Chris beamed so hard I swear I could feel it in my chest.

And Bobby…
God, Eds, Bobby was so proud. Like he was watching his own grandson getting sworn in.
He didn’t even pretend to play it cool. Just pure, unapologetic pride.
He ruffled Chris’s hair and called him kiddo like he'd been part of us forever.

I hope Chris remembers that.
I hope he always holds onto Bobby’s laugh — that big, belly-deep laugh he only pulled out when he was really happy.

I don’t know what’s waiting for us after all this.
But if there’s a heaven, Bobby’s definitely up there right now, lecturing angels about smoke detectors and grilling burgers to medium-well because “firefighters know better.”
(And if anyone tries to burn a burger on purpose, he’s totally writing them up.)

Miss him every day.

Yours,
Buck.

Eddie couldn’t help it — he smiled, just a little, even through the ache in his chest.
He could picture it so clearly.
Chris, tiny and beaming, looking up at Bobby like he hung the damn moon.
Bobby kneeling down, serious as anything, like Christopher really was the future of the 118.

Eddie remembered standing off to the side that day, arms crossed, pretending he wasn’t tearing up a little.
Pretending it didn’t mean the world to him that these people — this family — loved his kid like their own.
Pretending he didn’t feel a little lighter knowing that Chris would always be safe with them.
With Bobby.
With Buck.

He snorted under his breath thinking about Bobby in heaven bossing around a bunch of angels.
Of course he would.
Of course he’d be making charts and rosters, even up there.

For a second, Eddie just pressed the letter flat on his thigh and closed his eyes, letting the memory sit with him.
Not just the sadness of it — but the goodness too.
The luck of having had Bobby in their lives at all.
The luck of still having Buck.

He opened his eyes again, staring at the next envelope in the pile, and knew he needed to keep reading.

Letter number six:

Dear Edmundo,

Yeah, It’s a strong name, and honestly, you don’t get to argue. (You’re not even here to fight me on it.)

Anyway.
I was thinking tonight — maybe too much — about before.

Before all this.
Before Chris left for Texas.

Before you joined him.
Before Bobby was gone.

I know, life keeps moving, blah blah, it’s what everyone says. But sometimes I swear it feels like the whole world cracked open a little when you left.
And when Bobby died, it just fully fell apart.

L.A. doesn’t even feel like L.A. anymore.
The firehouse feels too quiet, too empty. The kitchen feels wrong without Bobby stirring his homemade lasagna (the best in the world) with that look he had — you know, that stupid proud dad face he always made like he was feeding the whole damn 118 as if we were his kids. (Which, I guess... maybe we were.)

I miss that.
I miss falling asleep on your stupid uncomfortable couch after shifts I didn’t want to go home after.

I miss picking up Chris from school and go on a ice cream chase.
I miss Chris walking into the station acting like I was the main event and not, you know, the literal fire truck sitting in the bay.
(He’s a good kid. He’s got great taste.)

I even — God, Eddie — I even miss my biggest drama being if I should text Tommy after our breakup.
Spoiler: I should not have texted Tommy.
But honestly, I’d take a thousand messy, awkward post-breakup run-ins if it meant Bobby was still here.
If it meant you were still here and didn’t went back to El Paso.

I miss it all so much it feels like a second skin I can’t peel off.

Anyway. Guess I’m just feeling it a little harder tonight.
Sorry.

Yours,
Buck

Eddie folded the letter back up slowly, fingers trembling just a little.

He pressed the paper against his chest, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against the wall.

Buck had written this after Eddie had already left. After Bobby’s funeral. After the 118 had shattered into something almost unrecognizable without their Captain. After Eddie had packed up Chris and flown home to El Paso, promising Buck he just needed a little time.

He hadn't told Buck yet he was coming back for good.

Hadn’t told him that every second in Texas had felt wrong. That every box packed felt like another mistake, another delay.
That Chris kept asking when they were going home — and he didn’t mean El Paso.
He meant L.A.
He meant Buck.

Eddie exhaled roughly, guilt clawing at his ribs.

Buck had missed him.
He missed him.
And Eddie hadn’t even been there to tell him he wasn’t planning to stay away.

He wondered how long Buck had sat on the edge of that stupid couch, phone in hand, not texting.
How many nights he'd felt the hole Eddie had left behind, and just shoved it down because that's what Buck did when he thought he was being too much.

And the way Buck wrote about Chris — like he was Buck’s too, in a way. Like it was just... understood.

Eddie rubbed a hand down his face and let out a quiet, broken laugh.
God, Buck had always been better at loving people than Eddie had.

Maybe if Eddie had been braver, he would have just called him.
Told him he was coming home.

Told him he missed him too.
That he missed Buck’s loud laugh echoing in the kitchen, the sound of his feet hitting the floor when he beat Eddie to the front door to answer the pizza delivery guy.
That he missed Buck's stupid grin when Chris called him his "almost-dad."

Instead, he sat there, with five other sealed envelopes still waiting for him.
Eleven little time capsules of Buck's heart, sent into the void while Eddie had been too scared to reach back.

Eddie breathed in through his nose, folded the letter even more carefully, and set it aside.
He wiped his eyes, rolled his shoulders back, and reached for the next envelope.

One at a time, Diaz, he thought.

One at a time.

Letter number seven:

Dear Edmundo,

I know, I know. Another letter.
You’re probably making one of those annoyed Diaz faces right now, the one where your mouth twitches but you’re still secretly a little soft about it.
(You’re not fooling anyone, by the way. Definitely not me.)

It’s late. I’m sitting at the station.
Everyone's gone quiet — Hen’s working a crossword, Chim’s half-asleep in a chair, and the kitchen is clean, for once, which feels wrong in itself.
It’s not the mess I miss, though. It’s... you.

You should be here.

There’s an invisible chair next to me.
And then there’s another, heavier one. Bobby’s chair, still tucked in like he’s just stepped away for a second. Like any minute he’s gonna walk back through that door with that little sigh he always did when he caught us screwing around instead of working.

But he’s not.
And you’re not either.

It’s stupid, I know. I’m an adult. I get it.
People move on. People die.
But if you think about it — it’s not about being dramatic.
It’s about the way some people are supposed to stay.
Because they're stitched into you without even asking permission.

And you, Eddie...
You’re stitched into me.

I miss you like I miss my own hand when it falls asleep — you’re supposed to be here, supposed to be mine to lean on, to argue with, to pull me out of my own head when I get too loud inside it.

It's like there's this gravity around you. Around us.
And without it, without you...
I feel like I’m just floating off into nothing.

You were never just a teammate, Eddie.
Never just a friend.
You were the first place that felt safe after Abby left, after everything fell apart.
You were the one who didn’t expect me to be anything but Buck.

Just Buck.
The dumbass who drank three cups of gas station coffee and still fell asleep on your couch five minutes into movie night.
The idiot who learned how to say "¿quieres un helado?" just so Chris would think he was cooler.

I think sometimes, even back then, I knew you were... important.
Maybe more important than I let myself believe.
You’re Family.

All I know is: the firehouse isn’t home without you.
The city isn’t home without you.

I’m not really home without you.

I’m trying, Eds.
I’m trying so hard.

But God, I wish you were here.

Yours,
Buck.

Eddie just kept his gaze fixed on the letter, on Buck’s words, like if he looked away even for a second, they might disappear.
Did Buck really mean all of that?
Of course he did.
It was Buck’s letter. Buck, who wore his heart on his sleeve when he let himself. Buck, who poured the truth into everything he did, even when it hurt him.
Especially when it hurt him.

Eddie stared down at the paper, reading the words over and over like they might start meaning something different if he just looked hard enough.
"Never just a friend."

What the fuck, Buckley.

His hands were a little numb, like maybe he was holding the letter too tight or maybe it was just his brain short-circuiting.
He was too stunned to move, too stunned to even think about picking up the next letter waiting patiently beside him.
He just... paused.
Frozen.

"You're family."
That’s what Buck meant, right? That’s what this entire letter meant. Family.
Family like the 118.
Family like him and Chris.
Family like... best friends.

Not "more than friends" more than friends.
Not the kind of more than friends that was creeping up in the back of Eddie’s head right now, slithering its way into his chest, tightening there like a fist.

No, no, no.

Eddie was full-on panicking now, and it was pathetic how fast he spiraled.
Buck was grieving. Buck missed Bobby. Buck missed the 118 as it was.
Buck missed his best friend because that’s what Eddie was — best friend, family.

It wasn’t a confession.
It wasn’t... more.

Right?
Right?

Because that would be crazy.
Because Eddie is straight.
He’s always been straight. Buck knows that. Eddie knows that.
So why — why the hell did he feel weird?
Why did he feel like the ground under him shifted half an inch to the left and he hadn't caught up yet?

It was the same kind of feeling he remembered from when he was a kid — standing in the hallway after school, watching the girl he thought was pretty and feeling awkward and shy and small.
Only now it wasn’t a girl.
And Eddie couldn’t remember ever really feeling that way before.
Not like this.
Not like... this.

He felt tiny. He felt ridiculous. He felt like he wanted to hide under a hundred blankets and never think about anything again.
And more than anything —
He wanted to call Bobby.
He wanted to call Bobby and tell him everything because Bobby would know.
Bobby always knew before Eddie knew.
Before Buck knew.
Before any of them could say it out loud.

But Bobby wasn’t a phone call away anymore.
Bobby was gone.
And Eddie was alone to face whatever the hell this mess of feelings was inside him.

And God, Eddie hated facing his feelings.
That’s why he always ran away.
He always found an excuse, a reason, a justification to shove it all down, bury it somewhere deep enough it couldn't touch him.

But right now?
Right now the feelings weren't getting shoved anywhere.

His feelings.

Did he have feelings for Buck?

The thought slammed into him like a freight train.
Full force. No warning. No way to stop it.

He stood up so fast he bounced into one of the boxes and almost made it fall.
The letter fluttered out of his hands and landed on the ground at his feet, forgotten for a second as he backed away like he could put distance between him and the truth slamming into him.

He stared down at the open envelopes scattered on the floor, the ones he hadn’t even opened yet, like they were dangerous.
Like they were ticking time bombs and he was just sitting there waiting for one to blow up the last pieces of his denial.

He was straight.
That's what he said to himself.

"I'm straight," he heard himself say, out loud, like maybe saying it would make it real.
It didn't.
It just made him feel more stupid.

Buck couldn't have meant it that way.
Buck was just grieving.
Buck was just missing his best friend.
Eddie was overthinking it.
Way overthinking it.

Usually, it was Buck doing the overthinking, spiraling into what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.
But this time, it was Eddie’s turn, and it was brutal, and it was lonely, and it was terrifying.

And maybe — maybe Buck hadn’t even realized what he was writing.
Maybe Buck was just being Buck — honest and stupidly brave with his heart, not thinking about how someone like Eddie might read it and come undone.

So Eddie forced himself to move.
Forced himself to reach for the next envelope, his fingers trembling just a little.

He opened it carefully, like it was something sacred.

And there it was again — his name in Buck’s handwriting.
Edmundo Diaz.
Written like a promise, like a prayer.

And Eddie found himself smiling.
Because suddenly, the way Buck wrote his name didn’t sound heavy or scary.
It sounded sweet.
It sounded like something Eddie wanted to read again and again.

Maybe it had always felt like that.
Maybe he just hadn’t let himself notice it before.

Letter number eight:

Dear Edmundo Diaz,

(Still your name. Still undefeated.)

I went to see Maddie and Jee today.
We ended up spending the afternoon at the park, mostly running after Jee, who has decided she’s faster than every adult alive. (She might be right.)
It felt good. Just... normal, you know?
Maddie’s always been good at making things feel normal even when everything’s upside down.

I think sometimes people forget Maddie kind of raised me.
Not officially — not on paper — but when everything fell apart at home, Maddie was the one who kept me together.
But even with that, even with her being this permanent “big sister-slash-parent” figure, it doesn’t feel like she’s in charge of me, if that makes sense.
It’s not top-down. It’s side-by-side.
We’re a team.
Me and Maddie against the world.
(And now Jee, too. Our tiny general.)

I guess... what I’m trying to say is — even when the world feels really goddamn empty — when it feels like I’ve lost too many people I needed standing next to me — I still have Maddie.
Even when she’s losing it a little herself.
Even when none of us have any idea what we’re doing.

And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe it has to be.

God, listen to me getting all mopey again.
Guess it’s just one of those nights.

Oh, and — speaking of Maddie —
She actually teased me about you once.

(You’re gonna love this.)

It was after everything with Tommy blew up.
After you left for Texas to be with Chris... things just kind of spiraled for a while.
I hooked up with Tommy again once (bad idea, by the way) and afterward, I was talking to Maddie about it, just rambling like an idiot.

I told her how Tommy thought you were “competition”
Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Really I don’t get that man.

Maddie asked me straight-up if Tommy had been right.
If I was...
Well.
If I was in love with you.

I laughed. I mean, come on.
That’s so cliché.
Fall for your best friend who’s so obviously straight?
What am I, a bad Netflix movie?

(You know the ones. Where everyone’s beautiful and sad and never actually talks about their feelings until the last five minutes.)

I laughed it off with Maddie.
I told her no, obviously not.
That we’re family.
That you’re my best friend.
That’s it.
End of story.

(Except — if it was really that simple, why am I still thinking about it now?)

Anyway.
Don’t get a big head about it.
(Actually — do. You’ve earned it.)

Miss you, Edmundo.

Yours,
Buck

WHAT IN THE HELL OF EVAN BUCKLEY WAS HE READING?

Eddie just lost it even more.

He had been spiraling before, but this?
This was like someone set off a damn explosion inside his chest and left him standing there, breathing in the smoke.

Tommy?
Tommy?
Like Tommy Tommy?
The Tommy that had broken up with Buck? The one Eddie had barely tolerated when they were together?
The Tommy Eddie had stopped talking to the minute things ended between him and Buck because loyalty mattered and Eddie Diaz knew exactly where his loyalty went?

Eddie felt it then, all at once — rage, pain, disgust — probably the three tied up in one ugly, burning knot inside his stomach.
He could practically feel his blood boiling under his skin, rushing hot and sharp.

Why was he learning about this now?

Buck told him everything.

Buck always told him everything.

Stupid shit, tiny stuff, stuff Eddie didn't even know why Buck thought was important to tell him — but this?

This he had kept quiet?

This he had saved for a damn letter Eddie was opening alone, miles and miles away from Buck?

And wait.
Wait.
Buck had hooked up with Tommy after Eddie left for Texas.
After Buck moved into his old house.
Meaning Tommy and Buck had gotten laid in his house.

In the house where Chris and them had done movie marathon nights.
In the house where Buck had helped Eddie patch the damn walls of his room after his breakdown.
In the house where they had fallen asleep on the couch after long shifts like they had the right to claim that space together.

Eddie felt his jaw ache.

He realized he was clenching his teeth so hard it hurt, fists curling tighter and tighter into themselves until the letter in front of him crumpled under the pressure of his hand.
He didn’t like this feeling.
Didn’t like the way it made his heart pound against his ribs or the way his vision blurred a little around the edges.

Buck going back to his toxic ex — Buck hurting himself again — Eddie wanted to protect him.
That was it.
That was all.

Wasn’t it?

Or —
Or was it something uglier?
Was it jealousy, sour and sharp, curling under his skin?

Jealousy of Tommy.
Jealousy of Tommy getting to touch Buck —
His Buck —
in his house
when Eddie had been a thousand miles away trying to patch things up with his son.

No.
That was stupid.
Because Eddie was straight.
Eddie didn’t want Buck that way.
He couldn’t.

Right?

HOLY HELL what was happening to him.

He dragged in a breath that felt like it scraped against his ribs.
Steady.
He needed to get steady.
Focus.

The letter.
Buck’s letter.
That wasn’t all it had said.

Think, Eddie, think.

Maddie had asked Buck if he was in love with Eddie.
Maddie.

The woman who knew Buck better than anyone else on the planet.
Who could see him more clearly than Buck saw himself most days.
Maddie wasn’t stupid.
Maddie didn’t say things like that lightly.

If Maddie had asked the question, that meant something.
It meant it was serious.

But Buck had said no.
Buck had laughed it off.
Buck had joked about bad Netflix movies and clichés.

He wasn’t in love with Eddie.

That was good.
Right?

That was good because Buck was honest.
Buck was always honest in these letters.

Except then —
then Buck had written:

"if it was really that simple, why am I still thinking about it now?"

And it was like Eddie could physically feel the ground tilt under his feet.
Was Buck serious dropping that at the end of the letter like it was nothing?
Like it wasn’t the kind of thing that could rearrange everything inside Eddie if he looked at it too long?

Like Eddie could survive this bomb being dropped at his feet?

But Buck had thought Eddie would love this story.
"You’re gonna love this."

That’s what Buck had written, all casual, all easy — like it was a joke between them.

So why didn’t Eddie feel like laughing?
Why did he feel like something inside him was cracking open under the weight of it?

Bobby.
God, he needed Bobby right now.

Bobby would tell him it was normal to panic.
That it didn’t have to mean anything he wasn’t ready to face.
That he could take his time.
That realizing something didn’t have to hurt so damn much all at once.

But Bobby wasn’t here.
Bobby wasn’t just a phone call away anymore.
And Eddie was left standing here alone, shaking under the weight of everything he didn’t want to think about.

Alone with his thoughts.
Alone with his feelings.
And hating that Buck — only Buck — could make him feel this torn up inside.
Because no one else ever had.
No one else had ever made him so confused about himself that he didn’t even recognize the shape of his own heart anymore.

He clenched his jaw even tighter, felt the muscles lock up as he bent down and picked up the next envelope with hands that weren’t as steady as they should be.

Buck was gonna make this clear.
He had to.

Because Eddie was about to have a full mental breakdown — again —
and this time Buck wouldn’t be there to pick up the pieces.

Because Buck would be the reason he broke in the first place.

Letter number nine:

Dear Edmundo,

(Did you know it meant wealthy protector? And apparently it's European, like Portuguese or Spanish or German? Not really sure. Anyway, that's pretty cool. Figures you’d have a name that sounds like you’re supposed to look after everyone.)

Tonight was rough.
We had a call that...
I don’t even really know how to put it into words.
It wasn’t one of the big, flashy rescues.
No collapsing buildings, no massive infernos.
It was just a family — a mom, a dad, a little girl.
A regular family.
We got there too late.

And I can’t stop thinking about it.

I keep replaying it over and over again in my head.
The way the little girl was just crying for her mom, even when we tried to help her.
The way there was nothing we could do but be there.

It made me think — not just about them, but about me too.
About how messed up my idea of family used to be.
About how long I spent believing that the only way to get someone to pay attention to me was to fall apart.

When I was a kid, I used to think getting hurt was the only way anyone would even look at me.
If I was quiet, if I was good, if I just lived — I might as well have been invisible.
But if I broke a bone, or ran a fever, or did something reckless and bloody enough —
Suddenly there were hands on me.
Suddenly someone noticed.

It twisted something inside of me that I’m still trying to untangle, even now.
Even after everything.

Tonight, after we got back from the call, I sat on the bumper of the engine and just... thought about Bobby.
About the way he always sees me.
Really sees me.
Not just when I’m hurt or bleeding.
Not just when I’m the idiot kid who ran headfirst into danger.
But all the time.
The way a real parent would.

And it hit me — how much of the man I’ve become is because of him.
Not my parents.
But Bobby.

Bobby taught me how to stand still and be seen.
How to believe that love doesn’t have to be earned by suffering.

Maddie too.
God, Maddie loves me with her whole heart even when I’m being an absolute dumbass.
She’s always been that for me — a lighthouse in the worst storms.
She’s family in the most right way.

And I think...

I think you are too.

I think you love me in that way —
Not because I’m good enough.
Not because I saved someone.
Not because I’m lying in a hospital bed bleeding out.

Just... because.
Because I’m me.
Because I’m here.
And for once in my life, I think I’m finally starting to believe that's enough.

The 118 — you, Hen, Chim, Ravi — you’re my family.
It’s been a long time since I first figured that out, but sometimes I still forget.
Sometimes the old wiring kicks in and I wonder if I have to earn it all over again.

And every time, every damn time, Bobby reminds me that’s not how it works.
Love isn’t conditional.
Family isn’t temporary.

You remind me too.

When you showed up at my doorstep with Chris —
Not because I was bleeding out, not because I was barely holding on —
But because you wanted me.
You chose me.
Even when I was fine.
Especially when I was fine.

That’s when I knew.

That’s when I knew I could trust you.
That I could trust all of it.
That maybe — just maybe — I could let myself have this family without waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I’m trying, Eddie.
I’m trying really hard to hold onto that.
Even when the nights get long and heavy like this one.
Even when my brain tries to trick me into falling back into old habits.

I’m trying.
Because you’re worth trusting.
Because this life we built — it’s worth trusting too.

Miss you like hell.
Come home soon, okay?

Yours,
Buck

Tears started falling down Eddie’s chin again.
He didn’t even try to stop them this time.

This one felt different.
This one felt bittersweet.

God, Buck.

Eddie wiped at his face uselessly, the letter still trembling in his other hand.
Buck had been through so much.
A shitty childhood, with shitty parents who didn’t know what they had.
Parents who made Buck feel like he had to earn love by breaking himself over and over again.

And yet—
And yet he had still grown up into this person.
This ridiculous, stubborn, brilliant person.
This man who would throw himself into danger for strangers.
Who would stay up all night at a teammate’s hospital bedside without even being asked.
Who would show up at Eddie’s house with groceries just because he "felt like making dinner tonight."

Buck was a goddamn golden retriever in human form —
All big heart and wagging tail, all sweetness and sunshine, all wild, messy goodness.
Always there for everyone else.
Cooking for the 118.
Laughing at his own dumb jokes.
Ranting about some new weird Wikipedia deep dive he got stuck on.
Mumbling facts Eddie didn’t understand half the time but loved hearing anyway because it was Buck and Buck made everything brighter.

Buck deserved the world.
Buck deserved to be told he was enough.
He deserved to be loved — easily, loudly, without hesitation.

And Eddie wanted—
God, he wanted to grab Buck’s stupid handsome face in his hands and tell him exactly that.
To make him believe it.
To hold him so close he could never doubt it again.

He didn’t even realize he’d stood up until he felt the slight wobble of his knees.
He wanted to see Buck.
Right now.
Wanted to be there, wanted to tell him he was worth everything, that he was seen, that he was loved.

But then the thought hit him like a punch to the chest.

He was his best friend.
That’s what this was.
That’s all this was.

Right?

He was straight.
He had always been straight.
That’s just... normal best friend behavior.
Right?
Wanting to fly across the country just to wrap your best friend in your arms and never let go?
Normal.

Normal.

Except it didn’t feel normal.
It didn’t feel like anything Eddie had ever felt before.
It felt bigger.
It felt terrifying.
It felt like standing on the edge of something he couldn't name.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing the burning behind them to go away.
He just wanted Buck to be happy.
He wanted to be the one standing at Buck’s side while he built that happiness.
As his best friend.
As his partner in chaos.

That’s all it was.

(That’s all he was willing to admit right now.)

There was more here.
He could feel it.
Buzzing under his skin like static, loud and heavy and impossible to shove down for much longer.
But Eddie Diaz had spent a lifetime running from feelings he didn’t want to face.
And right now, he wasn’t ready.
He wasn't ready to sit with it.
He wasn’t ready to look it in the eye.

Maybe he could just run a little longer.
Maybe he could hold onto the illusion a little tighter.

Eddie took a shaky breath, clenching the next envelope in his hands.
Buck was still talking to him, even from a thousand miles away.
Buck was still giving him every broken, beautiful piece of himself, trusting Eddie to hold it.

He wasn't about to break that trust now.

Even if his own heart was breaking a little in the process.

So he sat back down.
And he opened the next letter.

Letter number ten:

Dear Edmundo Diaz,

(Still undefeated. Seriously, your parents nailed it with that one.)

I was thinking about Bobby again today.
(Not a huge surprise. I think about him all the time.)

But it got me thinking about something else, too.
Something a little... dumber, probably.

I don’t know if I’m actually any good at being a normal friend.
Like—
What if I’m just broken that way?
What if I got so used to chasing after people who didn’t care that when someone finally did care, I latched onto them like some kind of idiot?

(And by someone, I mean you. Obviously.)

I mean, Hen literally told me I had "Eddie brain rot" the other day.
(Which, okay, rude. But also not exactly inaccurate.)

And yeah, we laughed about it.
I laughed.
I’m still laughing, kind of.
(Nervous laughter. Very stable. Totally fine.)

It’s just—
You’re the first person I want to talk to every day.
Even when there’s nothing to say.
Even when it’s stupid stuff, like Chris winning at Mario Kart online again or me finding a new dent in the firetruck somehow.

It’s always you.

Maybe I’m just broken.
Maybe you were just my person too fast for me to even notice.

Like it wasn’t even a decision.
Like breathing.

Anyway.
It’s not a big deal.
(I mean, it’s not like I’m inventing a whole new dictionary of feelings or anything. Who would do that. Crazy.)

I’m probably just tired.
(And a little hungry. I haven’t gone grocery shopping in three days. Maddie would kill me if she knew.)

Anyway.
I just miss him.
I miss all of it.
I miss you.

Hope you’re eating better than me.
(If not, I’m sending Chris a pizza fund. And no, you don’t get a say.)

Yours,
Buck

Eddie wiped at his face, annoyed when his fingers came back wet.
Again.
Damn it.

Tears had started somewhere around the second paragraph and hadn’t really stopped.

He read Buck’s letter again — slowly this time, like it would change the words if he just focused hard enough.

"Maybe I'm just broken. Maybe you were just my person too fast for me to even notice."

Eddie pressed his thumb hard against the page, trying to anchor himself to something. Anything.

Broken.

The word hit him harder than he expected.

Wasn’t that exactly what he was afraid of?

That he was broken?
That all his life — the parts he built, the parts he fought to hold together — would just... crumble into dust if he let this happen?
If he let himself want something he wasn’t supposed to want?

He let the letter fall against his knee, staring blankly at the wall like it would give him answers.

Buck didn’t mean anything by it, right?
He was just tired and missing Bobby.
Missing Eddie like a best friend would.
Like family would.

Right?

Except—
Except there was that feeling again.
That burning ache in his chest that wasn't just grief anymore.
It was something else. Something older, deeper. Something that had been with him longer than he wanted to admit.

His mind flashed — uninvited — to the church.
To the priest he'd sat down with at that coffee shop.
How the priest had smiled at him, patient and a little amused, when Eddie had said he was straight.
How he told him to "drink the juice" — to take the joy where it was offered.

Eddie remembered the way the priest had almost chuckled when Eddie insisted he wasn’t...
Wasn’t what?

Different?

Wrong?

Broken?

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard through his nose.

What if Buck was the juice?
What if Buck had been the joy waiting for him all along — and Eddie had been too scared to see it?

No.
No, that was crazy.

His life — the life he fought to build — it couldn’t have been a lie.
He wasn't broken.
He wasn’t wrong.

Right?

Because if he was —
If everything he thought he knew about himself wasn’t real —
Then who the hell was he?

He didn’t know.

All he knew was that when Buck said he missed him —
When Buck joked about sending a pizza fund for Chris —
When Buck called him his person —

Eddie felt something in his chest crack open a little more.

And he was terrified of what was going to spill out.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn't see the bottom of.

He didn’t want to jump.

But maybe — just maybe — he already had.

Eddie looked down at the next envelope waiting for him.
Buck’s handwriting neat and steady, like he had no idea he was ripping Eddie apart one letter at a time.

Eddie swallowed hard, wiped his palms on his jeans, and reached for it.

Because he couldn’t stop now.
Because he had to know.
Because whatever this was — whatever it meant —

He wasn't ready to let go of it yet.

Not if it meant letting go of Buck.

Letter number eleven:

Dear Edmundo Diaz,

(Yeah, still your name. Still sounds better than any other.)

Okay, fair warning:
I’m spiraling a little.

I’m actually sitting at Bobby’s grave while I’m writing this.
(Yeah, I know. Very dramatic of me.)

I figured if anyone could knock some sense into me, it’d be Bobby.
Instead, I’m just sitting here like some idiot who thinks the dead can give advice.
(Feeling very Elena Gilbert writing in her journal at her parents' grave right now.
And no, I don't expect you to get that reference.
You’re not a Vampire Diaries guy — pretty sure I’m already embarrassing myself enough for both of us.)

But I guess if there’s any place to be honest... it’s here.
With Bobby.
With you.

Anyway there I am — sitting cross-legged in the grass, talking to Bobby like he could hear me, scribbling all of this out like it’s gonna save me from myself.

Maybe it will.
Maybe it won't.

Either way, here it is.

I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about... us.

God, that sounds dramatic.

But I mean it —
You and me.
The way we are.

The way we’ve always been.

And I keep wondering —
Eddie, do you think we’re too much sometimes?

Like —
Do you ever wonder if we act like... normal friends?

I mean, I know we’re close.
We’re supposed to be, right?
Friends. Family. Partners.
That’s what everyone says.

But sometimes I think about it —
The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.
The way I catch myself smiling when you laugh, and it feels like the only thing I ever want to hear again.

The way I always want to tell you first when something happens.
The way your name is the first one that shows up in my phone even when I don’t remember calling you.
The way I’m pretty sure the inside of my brain just has a little neon sign flashing "EDDIE DIAZ" 24/7 at this point.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone else looks at us and thinks we’re—
different.

Not bad different.
Not wrong.

Just... maybe the kind of different you don't want to admit out loud because it changes everything.

I don't even know what I'm saying at this point.
Maybe it’s nothing.
Maybe it’s just me, missing you too much, overthinking everything like I always do.
You know me.

I’m good at setting myself on fire for no reason.

Maybe you’re sitting there reading this and laughing your ass off because, obviously, we’re fine.
Normal.

(As normal as two idiots like us can be.)

Or maybe you’re reading this and thinking...
Hell, I don’t even know what you’re thinking.
I never want to assume.

I guess—
I guess I just needed to say it out loud.
Even if it’s only here.
Only on paper.

Even if you never get to read those letters.

You’re my best friend.
You’re my family.
You’re the person I trust with everything I am — the messy parts, the scared parts, the parts that don’t know how to breathe right when you’re not around.

You’re my person, Eddie.

Maybe too much.
Maybe just enough.

I don’t know.

All I know is...
I miss you.

I miss you every damn day you’re not here.

Come home soon.

Yours (always),
Buck

Eddie didn't move for a long time after finishing Buck’s last letter.

It sat there in his lap, crumpled at the corners from how hard his hands were shaking. His breathing was uneven. His heart hurt. His chest hurt. Everything hurt.

Because — oh.
Oh.
He got it now.

It wasn’t just friendship.
It wasn’t just family.
It wasn’t just loyalty.

He loved Buck.

He loved Buck the way Buck deserved to be loved — fully, stupidly, endlessly — and he had been too goddamn blind to see it for seven years.

Seven fucking years of Buck being right there.
Seven years of Buck smiling at him like he hung the goddamn stars.
Seven years of Buck showing up, staying, choosing him — again and again and again — and Eddie had... what? Shoved it in a box? Labeled it “normal friendship” and pretended he understood himself?

He was past thirty.
A father.
A soldier.
A man who thought he knew who he was.

And now he was sitting on the floor of an empty house in Texas, surrounded by half-packed boxes and broken memories, realizing he didn’t know a single thing about himself at all.

It was like someone had ripped up the map he thought he was following and handed him a compass he didn’t know how to read.
Like the ground under his feet wasn’t solid anymore.

He felt small.
He felt stupid.
He felt like crying again.

Because it wasn’t just about Buck.
It was about everything.
Every time he had swallowed down what he wanted because it wasn’t what he was supposed to want.
Every time he had chosen the safe path, the expected path, even when it hurt him.
Every time he had run from feelings that didn’t fit the story he told himself about who he was allowed to be.

And now Eddie understood.
Buck was the juice.
Buck was the joy he kept pushing away because it scared him.
Because if he let himself take it — if he let himself want it — then he had to admit he had been living a half-life without even realizing it.

And that hurt.
It hurt more than anything else.

But under the hurt... was a kind of fragile hope.
Because Buck was still there.
Waiting for him.
Always.
Yours (always), Buck had written.

Eddie wiped his face roughly with his hands. His fingers shook. His whole body shook.
But there was a decision settling somewhere deep in his chest.

He couldn’t fix the past.
He couldn’t change the years he spent not knowing.
But he could know now.
He could choose Buck now.

And he would.

He pushed himself up off the floor, heart hammering so loud it felt like a second pulse.
There were still boxes everywhere.
Still a thousand loose ends in this house he once thought was a new beginning.

But he wasn’t staying here.
He wasn’t running anymore.
He was going home.

Home to Buck.

Two days later, Eddie took the road, the letters carefully packed in a box on the backseat, Chris by his side.
He was going back home — back to the 118, back to Buck.

He still didn’t know exactly how he was going to talk to Buck about the letters he had read, about everything he had realized about himself. About them.
But right now, he didn’t need to have all the answers.
Right now, he just wanted to get back to that house, walk through that door, and hug his best friend.

When they finally pulled up in front of their old house, Chris had a smile on his face — a real one — and Eddie’s heart twisted in his chest. It had been a long time since he had seen Chris smile like that.
Since either of them had smiled like that.

They grabbed what they could carry and made their way to the door. Eddie barely had time to knock before Chris swung it open.

Buck was there.
In the kitchen, of course, wearing that ridiculous apron that somehow managed to look good on him even though it clung a little too tightly to his broad chest. He was stirring something on the stove, humming under his breath, his hair messier than usual, and the second he turned around and saw them —

That smile.
The one that could crack Eddie open from the inside out.

Chris rushed forward and Buck bent down to scoop him into a hug, Chris laughing into his shoulder.
It was easy. It was simple. It was home.

Chris made his way to the table after, complaining about how starving he was after a whole day of bad gas station food because — Eddie winced — he had totally forgotten to pack something decent.
Buck just chuckled and ruffled Chris’s hair, he moved outside the kitchen joining Eddie in the hall.

Eddie hovered near the door, suddenly feeling like he couldn’t move.

Buck glanced over his shoulder. “You planning on running away, Eddie?” he teased, eyebrows raised.

Eddie blinked, thrown. “Uh, no. I’m here to stay.”

“Good,” Buck said, grinning wide enough to make Eddie’s heart stutter. He turned back toward the kitchen—

“Wait.”

Eddie stepped forward without thinking, reaching out to catch Buck by the shoulder. His hand landed solidly, warmly, fingers brushing over Buck’s collarbone like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like muscle memory.
Buck turned around, puzzled, letting Eddie hold him there.

Eddie really looked at him then.
At the way Buck’s deep blue eyes could hold whole skies inside them.
At the way the birthmark splashed near his eye like an artist’s signature.
At the lines around his mouth and eyes, carved by a life lived messy and loud and full of love.
At every freckle, every scar, every laugh line he had probably seen a hundred times but never really looked at.

“Eds?” Buck asked, frowning just slightly, voice softer now. “You good?”
Like he was ready to catch him if he fell.

Eddie smiled, something raw and aching pushing up inside him.
“Yeah. Yeah, Buck. I’m fine. I’m just—" he breathed out, shaky. "I’m happy to be home.”

Buck’s whole face lit up. “I’m happy too.”

Eddie swallowed. His hand was still on Buck’s shoulder. His thumb was still brushing skin. He didn’t even realize it.

“I wanted to tell you...” he started, heart pounding so loudly he was sure Buck could hear it, "I love you."

The words fell into the space between them, heavy and fragile and real.

Buck blinked at him. For a moment, the world held its breath.

And then Buck smiled, wide and beautiful, like he didn’t have a single doubt in his body.
“I love you too, man.”

Eddie smiled back and pulled Buck into a hug. A real one.
Not the kind they gave each other after a hard shift or a near miss.
A real hug, full-body, Eddie's arms wrapping around Buck’s waist and shoulders, Buck’s arms coming up to circle Eddie’s body the same way, fitting perfectly like pieces of a puzzle that had been waiting years to click into place.
An armor built for two, strong enough to survive anything.

Eddie closed his eyes.
He knew Buck thought he had meant it like he always did — like family.
He knew Buck meant it back, full of sincerity and warmth, but thinking he was just saying I love you too, my straight best friend.
And that was okay.

For now, it was enough.

Enough to be here.
Enough to be back.
Enough to plan on never leaving again.

Because Eddie hadn’t just meant it as friendship.

He loved Buck — loved every stupid, beautiful, infuriating, kind, broken, whole part of him.
He was in love with Buck.
Had been for a long, long time without knowing.

But he knew now.
And even if he wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet — even if Buck wasn’t ready to hear it — he would be.
One day.

They needed time.
They were still grieving.
Still healing.

And Eddie knew he had to be there — to stand beside Buck and let himself heal too.
No one else could ease Buck’s pain the way Eddie could.
No one else could reach the parts of Eddie that Buck already held without even knowing it.

But there was a truth that sat heavy in Eddie’s heart:

Bobby had to die for this to happen.
Bobby had to die for him to come back.
Bobby had to die for Buck to open up.
Bobby had to die for Eddie to finally see the love that had been in front of him all along.

And now Bobby wasn’t here.
Wasn’t here to catch him if he stumbled, to tell him it was okay to be scared.
Wasn’t here to tell him that his love for Buck wasn’t new — it was just finally named.

Bobby wasn’t here anymore.
And Eddie had to face himself, face the mirror without flinching, and let himself exist.
Let himself love.
Let himself choose happiness, finally.

Choose Buck.