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Buck reads the review three times before closing the tab, to make sure he’s not imagining the venom in every carefully chosen word.
He doesn't slam the laptop shut. That would mean it hurt — and he’s not ready to admit that, not even to himself. Instead, he just sets it aside with a sort of numb carefulness, like the words aren’t already burrowed under his skin.
Overwritten. Unoriginal.
Irrelevant.
Wasted potential.
The critic used all his least favorite phrases, like they were pulled straight from Buck’s own inner monologue that makes him question his skills, his identity.
It’s not just criticism— it feels personal, cruel.
He stares at the wall for a long moment. Then he gets up.
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Eddie gets home to the smell of citrus and cinnamon in the air, faint tones of pop music.
The apartment is spotless, the living room rug looks vacuumed, the couch cushions are rearranged and pillows fluffed.
He blinks, drops his studio bag on the armchair, and calls out, “Buck?”
“In the kitchen,” Buck replies, voice too casual, too bright.
Eddie rounds the corner and takes in the sight —Buck in that worn white hoodie, sleeves pushed up, barefoot, mopping the countertops clean. He’s got a swipe of flour on his temple, dusting some of his curls.
He crosses the room and wraps his arms around Buck from behind, burying his face between those broad shoulder blades. Buck lets out a breath like he’s been holding it in for hours, leans back into the hold with a quiet kind of relief.
Buck lets the towel fall still in his hand. His other arm comes up to rest over Eddie’s, grounding himself in the quiet strength of that embrace.
“I thought you had rehearsal late,” he says, voice gentler now, worn down at the edges.
“Kids got bored. Got out early,” Eddie murmurs against his back, lips brushing soft cotton. “Lucky me.”
Buck laughs under his breath, barely. It doesn’t carry any real joy, just habit. Eddie tightens his arms.
The silence settles again, only the faint rhythm of music in the background and the soft hum of their breathing between them. Buck shifts, turns around in Eddie’s arms, eyes red-rimmed but dry. He gives a small, sheepish smile and says, “I made cookies.”
Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Guessed as soon as I stepped in. What kind?”
“Lemon snickerdoodles,” Buck says, picking at a thread on Eddie’s t-shirt collar. “Thought I’d try combining your favorites. It’s probably a disaster.”
“They smell amazing.” Eddie squeezes his waist. “Though, you do know talking about what’s wrong comes after stress baking, right?”
Buck huffs a laugh. “Debatable.”
“Did something happen?”
“Buck,” he says, soft but steady when Buck doesn’t reply.
Buck tries for another smile, but it falters before it reaches his eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You vacuumed the rug , babe.”
Buck rolls his eyes. “Is that illegal now?”
Eddie doesn't take the bait.
He slides his hands under Buck’s hoodie, palms warm against his skin, grounding. “You only clean like this when your brain’s trying to outrun something.”
Buck's breath stutters, and for a second, he doesn’t say anything. He just leans into the touch, closes his eyes like maybe if he stands still long enough, he can melt into Eddie and forget whatever’s clawing at him from the inside out.
Eddie waits.
Finally, Buck mumbles, “It was just a review.”
Eddie’s brows draw together. “Of your book?”
Buck nods, still not quite meeting his eyes.
Eddie’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t say fuck them , not yet. He just lets his thumb trace Buck’s cheekbone, voice low. “Was it the one from The Lit Current ?”
“Mailed me the article, too,” he tries to say it like a joke, but it’s all wrong—brittle and bitter at the edges.
Eddie’s hands tighten slightly on Buck’s hips. “What did they say?”
Buck doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he sighs and reaches for his phone on the counter where the music is still playing in a low volume. His fingers hesitate over the screen for a second —like he’s debating whether showing Eddie will make it worse— but then he unlocks it, taps a few times, and turns the phone around.
Eddie takes it carefully.
The headline is bad. The subheading is worse.
Buckley’s prose, often praised for its emotional candor, here slips into indulgence. Sentences stretch beyond their weight, laden with poeticism that feels less like craft and more like an effort to impress.
Where his previous work offered grounded, thoughtful explorations of human connection, ‘Where The Water Settles’ leans heavily on sentimentality and self-importance.
The emotional stakes, while clearly personal to the author, come across as manipulative rather than moving.
Perhaps most damning is the novel’s persistent sense of mimicry. ‘Where the Water Settles’ reads less like the evolution of an emerging author and more like an ambitious final project from someone trying to prove he belongs in the literary world, rather than someone who trusts he already does.
Eddie closes his eyes, briefly. He knows how much Buck already struggles with imposter syndrome—how hard he fought to believe that his words had value after years of putting everyone else first. And now some smug critic with a keyboard and a grudge wants to unravel all of that.
He exhales through his nose, the kind of breath that could turn to fire if he let it. “Asshole.”
Buck huffs out a laugh, shoulders sagging. “It’s just a review.”
“Then why’d you clean the apartment like your soul depended on it?”
Buck shrugs, but it’s tired, his usual deflection dulled.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “This isn’t a review. It’s a hit piece.”
Buck shrugs, but it’s hollow. “It’s one person’s opinion.”
“It’s a mean person’s opinion,” Eddie corrects. “And it’s not true.”
“Some of it is,” Buck says quietly. “It is overwritten in parts. I knew that going in. And I tried to fix it but—”
“Stop.” Eddie’s voice is firm, not unkind. “You rewrote that manuscript three times. You sent it to three different beta readers. You took notes from your editor. That’s not someone ‘playing writer,’ that’s someone being one.”
Buck doesn’t say anything, just stares at the floor like it might swallow him whole if he waits long enough.
Eddie places the phone on the counter and gently tilts Buck’s chin up. “Hey. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, Buck does.
“You don’t have to pretend this didn’t hurt,” Eddie says, soft but unwavering. “But don’t you dare start believing it.”
Buck blinks hard, eyes stinging. “I just wanted it to be good , you know?”
“It is good. It’s yours. And it made people feel things. Not everyone can do that, Buck. You bled for it— and I’m proud of you.”
Buck closes his eyes, exhales like he’s been holding something in all day.
That breaks something loose in Buck’s expression —his eyes close, his arms come around Eddie like he’s trying to climb inside him, anchor himself there. He presses his forehead to Eddie’s shoulder.
“I don’t know how to shut it up,” he whispers. “That voice in my head that agrees with them.”
Eddie strokes his back beneath the hoodie. “You don’t have to. Not right away. But let my voice in too, yeah?”
Buck nods, barely, face still hidden. Eddie can feel his breath against his collarbone, warm and shaking.
“Wanna dance with me?” Eddie asks, quiet.
Buck pulls back just enough to give him a puzzled look.
“Right now?” Buck laughs in.
Eddie doesn’t answer. He swipes out of the article and reopens the music app where the music is still playing. A few taps and soft notes of ‘Got The Love’ plays.
Buck recognizes it instantly. It’s one of Eddie’s favorites, a song that’s slipped into Sunday morning pancakes and long drives home, but right now, in the quiet of their warm, clean kitchen, it feels like something else entirely.
“Come here,” Eddie murmurs, phone abandoned on the counter now, both hands reaching for Buck again. He slides his arms around Buck’s waist like it’s second nature —because it is. “Sway with me.”
Buck lets out something between a laugh and a sigh, and lets himself be pulled in, hands settling around Eddie’s shoulders.
The music wraps around them, gentle and affirming. Eddie hums along under his breath, just loud enough for Buck to hear the words as they start:
Stop picking fights with the mirror
You're seeing cracks that ain't there
Buck tenses for half a second. He doesn’t mean to. But Eddie feels it. So he tightens his grip, just slightly and continues swaying, until Buck relaxes again.
Oh, if you ain't got the love, take a piece of mine
You know I've got more than enough, here for you and I
Eddie presses a kiss to Buck’s temple, just where the flour is still dusted across a curl.
Buck exhales slowly, like Eddie just opened a window inside him and let all the stale air out.
I'll take the weight off your shoulders
I'll hold you whenever you want
The scent of citrus and cinnamon lingers around them, warm from the oven. The timer continues ticking, somewhere in the background.
Buck lets his forehead fall against Eddie’s. His hands move to Eddie’s shoulders, fingers curling in the soft cotton of his shirt. They sway in slow, small steps on tile, no rhythm besides the music and each other’s breath.
I've got the love, got the love, got the love
Love, love, love
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Later, Eddie is pouring them a glass of cold milk as they wait for the cookies to cool down a little.
“What if I peaked already? What if I’ve said all I have to say?” Buck says, leaning on the counter beside Eddie, watching the glass sweat.
Eddie puts the milk back in the fridge and looks him in the eye, steady and certain. “Then you wouldn’t still be writing. You wouldn't have woken up at 3 a.m. last week to scribble an idea on a napkin. You wouldn’t be daydreaming plot twists in the shower and texting yourself dialogue mid-grocery run. You still have things to say, Buck. And I’ll be here for every one of them.”
There’s a long moment of silence as Eddie checks the cookies.
Then Buck mumbles, “I almost didn’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because... you believe in me. More than I do. And I didn’t want to see that belief fade.”
Eddie’s heart clenches. He turns and cups Buck’s face gently, thumbs brushing over the curve of his cheekbones. “That’s not how this works. My belief in you doesn’t hinge on your good days. In fact, it’s stronger on the bad ones.”
Buck leans forward until their foreheads touch, breath mingling. “God, I love you.”
“Yeah?” Eddie whispers, smiling. “Even though I always steal the cookies before they cool?”
Buck huffs out a laugh. “Even then.”
They stand there a moment longer, holding each other in the quiet swirl of music and sugar and lemon in the air.
Eventually, Eddie kisses him once, sweet and slow, before murmuring against his lips, “Come sit with me. You can read me a page of the chapter you’re working on. Or we can just eat cookies and watch trash TV. Your call.”
Buck hums. Then nods.
“Cookies first,” he says, voice genuinely lighter now. “But I’m warning you, they might actually be awful.”
Eddie grins, kissing the pink birthmark on his husband’s face lovingly. “Then I’ll suffer through every bite. For you.”
Buck laughs again, a little more real this time, and lets himself be pulled toward the couch, where the healing always begins —with warmth, with softness, with Eddie.
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