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The knock at Eddie’s door came just after eleven.
He didn’t ask who it was. He didn’t need to. There was only one person who ever showed up this late, quiet and heavy in the air like smoke that hadn’t cleared.
Eddie opened the door to find Buck standing there—jacket unzipped, eyes shadowed, jaw tight.
“Beer?” Eddie asked, stepping aside.
Buck nodded and walked in.
The call had been bad. Not the worst they’d ever seen, but bad enough to stick to the skin, cling to their bones. A car fire with a family inside. They’d gotten the parents out. The kid... not in time.
Buck hadn’t said much on the ride back. Hadn’t stuck around the firehouse, either. Eddie had just... known. Like always.
They sat on the couch, beers in hand. The TV was on, muted. Neither of them looked at it.
“You okay?” Eddie asked, eyes on his bottle.
Buck gave a humorless laugh. “No. You?”
“Nope.”
Silence fell again, except for the occasional clink of glass when they drank.
“I thought I’d be used to it by now,” Buck said after a while, voice rough.
Eddie shook his head. “You’re not supposed to get used to it.”
Buck glanced over at him, eyes tired and a little wild. “I keep thinking about his shoes. The kid’s shoes were still smoking.”
Eddie reached out, his hand settling briefly on Buck’s shoulder, just a moment of comfort. But Buck didn’t move away. He leaned into it, like the touch was the only thing keeping him grounded.
And then Eddie was leaning closer.
Buck froze as Eddie’s lips brushed his.
It wasn’t forceful. Wasn’t fast. Just a kiss—warm, firm, and completely unexpected.
When Eddie pulled back, Buck blinked. “What—Eddie, are you—”
“I don’t know,” Eddie said, voice low. “I just… needed something to feel like I’m still here. Like I’m still alive.”
Buck stared at him, stunned. He’d always known Eddie was private. Guarded. Complicated. But not this. Eddie had never once given off that kind of signal. Not to Buck. Not to anyone.
“I didn’t know you—” Buck started, voice catching.
“I didn’t either,” Eddie murmured. “But I wanted to. Just now.”
Buck was bisexual. He’d known that for a long time. And he’d had his share of confusion, of doubt, of figuring himself out. But Eddie? Eddie was the guy who dated women, who’d had a wife, who never once—
He didn’t finish the thought. Eddie was looking at him like he’d never looked at anyone else. Not with confusion. Not with guilt.
With want.
Buck set his beer down, slow. “So… what are we doing?”
Eddie’s voice dropped. “Just... letting it out. Just tonight.”
And Buck nodded.
They moved together without speaking. Buck followed Eddie into the bedroom, both of them shedding the weight of the day along with their clothes. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t neat. It was hot and urgent and aching.
By the time they lay breathless in the dark, Buck’s heart was pounding for a different reason.
Neither of them looked at the other right away.
Eddie spoke first. “It was just a one-time thing. To deal with the day.”
“Right,” Buck echoed, staring up at the ceiling. “Just the stress.”
But his chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with the call.
And beside him, Eddie stayed quiet—awake, unmoving. Close enough to touch, but miles away.
Buck woke to warmth.
Not the kind from sunlight spilling through the window or the blanket tangled around his legs—but the steady heat of Eddie’s body beside him.
His first instinct was to move, to shift away, to put space between them. But he didn’t. He just laid there, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding like it hadn’t slowed down all night.
What the hell had they done?
The events of the night before came back in pieces. The beer. The silence. The kiss. Eddie’s mouth on his. The bedroom. The weight of Eddie above him, around him, in him.
Buck shut his eyes.
It had been good. Too good. Which only made it worse.
A soft rustling beside him made him glance over. Eddie was awake, eyes open, staring straight ahead at the far wall. His expression was unreadable, lips slightly parted like he was about to say something—but didn’t.
Buck swallowed. “So…”
Eddie blinked but didn’t turn his head. “Yeah.”
“Okay, not the most coherent start to a conversation,” Buck mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. “But I think we probably need to, you know. Talk.”
Eddie finally looked at him. His eyes were tired. Not regretful, exactly, but guarded. “About what? We already said it was a one-time thing.”
“Right.” Buck nodded. “One time. To deal with the day.”
“Exactly.”
More silence. Heavy and uncomfortable in a way it hadn’t been last night.
Buck sat up slowly, sheet sliding down his bare chest. “Okay. So we pretend it didn’t happen?”
Eddie pushed himself up too, slower, like he hadn’t slept at all. “It happened,” he said softly. “But yeah. We don’t make it a thing.”
Buck glanced over at him, heart twisting. “You kissed me, Eddie.”
“I know.”
“And you’re—what? You’re not gay. Or bi. Or—”
“I don’t know what I am, Buck,” Eddie snapped, sharper than he meant to. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and looked away. “I just… I needed it. You were there.”
Buck flinched. That part hurt more than he wanted to admit.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I was.”
Eddie sighed, and for a second, Buck thought he might reach out, say something softer, something real. But instead, Eddie stood and reached for his pants. “I’ll make coffee.”
Buck stayed in the bed a moment longer, sitting in the echo of something neither of them were ready to name.
It had been a one-time thing.
But it felt like it had cracked something open—and now they were both pretending they didn’t notice the light spilling through.
By the time Buck made it to the kitchen, Eddie had already poured two mugs of coffee—black, no cream, just how they both took it when they were too tired to care.
Buck accepted the mug with a quiet “Thanks,” fingers brushing Eddie’s for a second longer than they needed to.
They didn’t talk at first.
Buck leaned against the counter. Eddie stood across from him, one hand braced on the edge of the sink, his gaze focused somewhere out the window, like the palm tree in his backyard held all the answers.
The silence wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even awkward, really. Just… too much. Too full of everything they weren’t saying.
“So,” Buck said eventually, “are we okay?”
Eddie looked at him then, finally, and Buck hated that he couldn’t read his expression. He’d always been good at reading Eddie—on calls, at work, with Chris. But not now. Not when he needed it most.
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “We’re fine.”
Buck’s jaw tightened. “You don’t sound fine.”
Eddie sighed and set his coffee down. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, Buck. I just—I don’t know what you want me to say. It happened. It was what it was. And I’m not... ready to unpack what it means.”
Buck crossed his arms. “You think I am? I didn’t expect you to kiss me. I thought you were straight, Eddie.”
“I thought I was too,” Eddie snapped, then ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself more than anything. “I don’t know what last night was. I just knew I didn’t want to be alone. And you were there.”
“That makes me sound like a warm body.”
“No,” Eddie said, stepping forward, voice quieter now. “You’re more than that. You know you are. You’re Buck. You’re—you’re the one I call when I can’t breathe after a bad call. You’re the one who shows up.”
That should’ve meant something. But it still felt like Eddie was putting a wall back up, one brick at a time.
Buck forced a smile, the kind that didn’t touch his eyes. “Well, that’s what friends do, right? They show up.”
Eddie didn’t answer.
Buck finished the rest of his coffee, set the mug down, and stepped back.
“I should go,” he said, already reaching for his jacket. “I’ve got laundry. Groceries. Life.”
Eddie nodded. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow.”
Buck paused at the door. “One-time thing, right?”
Eddie met his eyes, and for just a second, Buck saw something flicker there—regret, maybe. Or longing.
But Eddie only nodded. “Yeah. One time.”
Buck walked out, the door shutting quietly behind him.
And Eddie stood there alone, staring at the space where Buck had just been, feeling like something important had just slipped through his fingers.
One time.
It echoed in both their minds.
But neither of them believed it. Not really.
Things weren’t exactly tense. Just… off.
At the station, Buck still laughed. He still cracked stupid jokes during inventory checks and raced Chim to the rig when a call came in. But there was a hesitation now, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Like his smile didn’t quite stretch all the way.
And Eddie—Eddie was quieter than usual. More focused, maybe. More controlled. But every once in a while, when no one was watching, his gaze would flick to Buck. Just a second too long. Just a breath too late.
Hen saw it.
She saw everything.
She didn’t push right away. She waited, watched. Let the strange little dance play out for three full shifts before she cornered Buck in the locker room while everyone else was in the kitchen debating takeout.
“You’re twitchier than usual,” she said, arms folded as she leaned against the bench beside him.
Buck blinked, halfway through changing out of his turnout gear. “I’m not twitchy.”
“You flinched when Eddie handed you a protein bar.”
Buck snorted. “It was peanut butter. I hate peanut butter.”
“You love peanut butter.”
Buck froze for half a second. Then sighed. “Fine. Maybe I’m a little… off.”
Hen waited.
He didn’t say more.
“Okay,” she said, “but if you’re going to lie to my face, at least try harder.”
Buck sat down, running both hands through his hair. “I’m not lying.”
“You’re definitely hiding something.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” Buck muttered, which was only technically true.
Hen softened a little. “Did you two fight or something?”
Buck looked at her sharply. “No. No, it’s not like that.”
“But it is something.”
He hesitated. Long enough to make it clear that yes, it was. Then he shook his head. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
Hen raised an eyebrow. “When you say that, it usually means it’s something everyone is going to worry about soon.”
He laughed quietly, but it didn’t hold its usual spark. “It’s just… complicated. And I don’t know how to talk about it yet.”
Hen nodded, accepting that—for now. “Okay. But when you’re ready? I’m here. And you know I’ve already got theories.”
Buck groaned. “Please don’t.”
She smiled, teasing and warm. “Too late.”
As she walked out, Buck leaned back against the locker and closed his eyes.
Hen was right.
Something had happened.
And he didn’t know how to talk about it, because he didn’t even know what it was. Just that it had started in Eddie’s bed after a brutal call, and now it lived in every look they didn’t quite share.
Eddie wasn’t talking about it.
And Buck didn’t know how.
Buck didn’t even remember driving to Eddie’s place.
One moment he was in the firehouse locker room, peeling off smoke-stained gear with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, and the next he was pulling into Eddie’s driveway, headlights off, stomach hollow.
The call had been awful.
A house fire. A family trapped inside. They got the parents out. The little girl was already gone by the time Buck reached her—arms curled around a stuffed bunny, face black with soot, chest still.
He’d carried her out anyway. Couldn’t make himself leave her in there.
He hadn’t cried until he got into the truck.
The front door opened before he knocked.
Eddie stood there, barefoot, in an old t-shirt and sweats. His face was a mix of surprise and concern—but he didn’t ask questions. Just stepped aside and let Buck walk in like it was expected.
Like this was becoming normal.
Buck dropped onto the couch and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His jaw was tight, his eyes red-rimmed. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You don’t need a reason,” Eddie said quietly, taking the seat beside him. “You okay?”
“No.”
He meant to talk about it. That was the whole point. To finally say something real. To tell Eddie that the weight of it all was starting to crush him again, that he was scared of where his head kept going lately, that everything had felt harder since that night in Eddie’s bed and pretending it hadn’t happened was making it worse.
But when he turned to Eddie, he didn’t speak. He just looked at him—and Eddie looked back, like he already knew.
And then Eddie kissed him.
Again.
Buck didn’t hesitate this time. Didn’t stop to ask what it meant. He just pulled Eddie closer, hands fisting in the hem of his shirt, mouth desperate and bruising.
Clothes came off somewhere between the living room and the bedroom. It wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t slow. It was messy and heated and quiet, like neither of them could risk a sound.
And when it was over, Buck lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, chest still heaving.
He didn’t say anything.
Neither did Eddie.
But this time, Buck rolled onto his side. He faced Eddie, eyes searching.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen again.”
“I know,” Eddie said, barely above a whisper.
“I just… I came over to talk.”
Eddie nodded. “I know.”
Buck hesitated. “Are we okay?”
Eddie’s eyes met his, dark and unreadable in the low light. “We’re here. That’s what matters.”
But Buck wasn’t so sure anymore. He was starting to think the line between comfort and something else had already blurred too far to pretend it hadn’t.
And this time, he didn’t fall asleep right away.
He stayed awake long after Eddie’s breathing evened out, staring into the dark, wondering when "just a one-time thing" had started turning into something else entirely.
Buck left before the sun came up.
He moved quietly, careful not to wake Eddie, even though part of him wanted to. Part of him wanted to sit on the edge of the bed, shake Eddie’s shoulder, and say “We can’t keep doing this.” Or maybe “Do you want this, too?”
But instead, he pulled on his clothes in the dim light of the hallway, grabbed his keys from the counter, and slipped out the front door without a sound.
The air was cool, damp with early morning. Buck stood on the porch for a long minute, head tipped back toward the still-dark sky. His eyes burned, his chest was tight, and the hollow ache from the fire yesterday hadn't gone away—not even after last night.
Especially not after last night.
At the station, things were… the same. At least on the surface.
Buck joked with Chimney. Laughed at something Bobby said about a spaghetti recipe. He even let Ravi beat him at ping-pong without complaining too much.
But Eddie kept his distance.
Not in a cold way. Not in a something-is-wrong way. Just a few inches further away than usual. Fewer touches. No casual hand to the shoulder. No shared glances over coffee.
It was like they were pretending the second time hadn’t happened either.
Hen noticed that too.
She caught Buck at the kitchen sink during lunch, scrubbing his already-clean coffee mug.
“Hey,” she said gently. “You still not ready to talk?”
Buck gave a tight smile. “Still complicated.”
Hen tilted her head. “Complicated’s my specialty.”
“I know,” he said, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Okay,” she said after a beat. “But listen, whatever it is—if it’s hurting you, it’s not going to go away just because you keep swallowing it.”
Buck didn’t respond. Just scrubbed the inside of his mug a little harder.
Across the room, Eddie was sitting beside Chim, head down over a folder, pretending not to notice Buck watching him.
They didn’t talk about it on the drive home either.
Buck had offered to take the truck so Eddie could swing by to pick up Chris from his parents’. The car ride was quiet. Not uncomfortable, but not normal either.
Not them.
“Thanks for the ride,” Eddie said when Buck pulled into his driveway.
Buck nodded. “Yeah. No problem.”
He almost said something more.
Almost.
But Eddie was already climbing out of the truck, already walking toward the door like nothing had changed, like Buck hadn’t been in his bed twice now, unraveling everything he thought he understood.
Buck sat there for a long moment after the door closed.
Hands on the wheel. Engine idling. Head full of questions.
They kept saying it didn’t mean anything.
But if that was true, why did it keep happening?
And why, when it was over, did Buck always feel like something inside him was breaking a little more each time?
He pulled out of the driveway and drove home alone pretending, just like Eddie, that nothing had changed.
Buck stared at his ceiling fan, letting it spin shadows across his darkened bedroom. He should’ve been asleep hours ago. The shift had been long, uneventful in the worst way—quiet enough for his thoughts to crawl all over him like vines, choking out any chance of rest.
He wanted to talk about it.
Really, he did.
But every time he got close—every time the words built up in his throat—they got tangled up in fear. Fear that he’d say too much. That he’d break whatever fragile thing he and Eddie were pretending was still normal between them.
Because things were strange. Again.
Strange in a way that had Hen narrowing her eyes across the kitchen table, Bobby tilting his head during a team dinner like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Chim wasn’t subtle either—he made a joke about "tension you could cut with a hose line" just yesterday.
Buck laughed it off. Said work stress. Said overtime. Said everything except what mattered.
He and Eddie were fine. Sort of. Technically. They hadn’t fought. They still functioned perfectly on calls, still worked in sync, still knew each other’s rhythms down to the breath.
But between those calls? Between the noise and the structure and the rush?
They didn’t quite know how to be around each other.
The jokes came slower. The silences lasted longer. Their timing—usually effortless—felt a beat off. Like a song played in the wrong key.
Eddie didn’t mention the last time. Buck didn’t either.
They were both pretending it didn’t happen, again.
But Buck couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop replaying it. The way Eddie kissed him without hesitation. The way their bodies had come together like they’d done this a hundred times before.
The way it had felt like something neither of them were ready to admit.
Buck rubbed at his eyes and groaned into the empty room. He thought about texting Eddie. Something simple. Can we talk? Or maybe I miss you, even though they technically saw each other every day.
But he didn’t.
Because what if Eddie ignored it? What if Eddie replied with talk about what? Or worse—what if he replied with nothing at all?
So instead, Buck let his phone fall to the floor and turned onto his side.
He didn’t cry. He was too tired for that.
But his chest ached, heavy and slow, with everything he wanted to say and couldn’t. Because Eddie had drawn the line. And Buck didn’t know how to cross it without losing him completely.
Tomorrow they’d suit up again. They’d ride the engine, save people, maybe laugh at something Chim did.
And they’d keep pretending everything was fine.
Even if it was killing him a little more every day.
The next shift was uneventful, which should have been a relief. No fires. No car crashes. No life-or-death calls that left everyone wrung out and raw. Just long hours of cleaning, drills, and the quiet hum of too much time to think.
Buck hated days like this now.
Because it gave his brain room to wander. And every time it did, it wandered right back to Eddie.
To that second night. To the feel of Eddie’s mouth on his skin. To the way Eddie had looked at him afterward—quiet, careful, and completely unreadable.
It was driving Buck insane.
He stood at the kitchen sink rinsing out his protein shaker, the same one he always forgot in his locker until it reeked. Chim and Hen were laughing in the background over some meme Chim had found. Bobby was sitting at the table working on the duty roster.
And Eddie—Eddie was nowhere.
He’d gone out to check the engine over an hour ago and hadn’t come back.
Hen sidled up next to Buck and bumped her hip into his. “You okay?”
Buck didn’t even pretend this time. He just sighed. “Not really.”
She didn’t say anything at first, just handed him a dish towel. “Wanna talk?”
He dried the bottle slowly. “Yeah. I do. I just… can’t.”
Hen studied him for a moment. “You and Eddie?”
Buck tensed. “What makes you say that?”
Hen gave him a flat look. “Please. The way you two orbit each other like a pair of malfunctioning satellites? It’s painfully obvious something happened.”
He didn’t say anything.
Hen lowered her voice. “Buck, I don’t care what it is. But it’s eating you alive.”
Buck’s fingers clenched tighter around the bottle. “It was supposed to be a one-time thing. But it wasn’t. And now… I don’t know what it is.”
Hen blinked. “You slept with him?”
Buck glanced around quickly—thankfully, Chim was distracted with Bobby. “Twice,” he admitted in a whisper. “The second time, I went over to talk. To open up. But we didn’t talk. And now it’s like we’re stuck in this weird limbo where we’re pretending it didn’t happen, but everything feels different.”
Hen’s expression softened. “Do you want it to be just a one-time thing?”
Buck’s throat worked. “No. But I think he does.”
“Have you asked him?”
“No,” Buck said quietly. “Because I’m scared he’ll say yes.”
Hen reached out and touched his arm, grounding and kind. “That’s not nothing, Buck. The fact that you want more. That you care.”
Buck finally looked at her, eyes rimmed red but dry. “What if I already screwed it up?”
Hen gave him a half-smile. “Then unscrew it. Talk to him. Even if it’s hard. Especially if it’s hard.”
Before Buck could answer, the door to the bay opened. Eddie walked in, wiping grease off his hands with a rag, gaze flicking toward Buck and Hen before settling somewhere past them.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just kept moving.
Buck felt the ache in his chest sharpen.
Later that night, as the station settled down and the lights dimmed, Buck stood outside under the stars, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, heart heavy.
Eddie found him out there.
Neither of them spoke at first.
Then Buck, voice low and rough, said, “We should talk.”
Eddie didn’t move. “Yeah. We should.”
But neither of them did.
And the silence said everything they still couldn’t.
They ended up on the bench out back, the one by the picnic table where Bobby sometimes drank his morning coffee and Chris had once declared the best spot for star-watching. It was late—close to midnight—and the station had gone still. Just the hum of the fridge inside and the occasional bark of a dog somewhere down the street.
Buck sat with his hands clenched between his knees, bouncing one leg like he couldn’t sit still. Eddie sat beside him, quiet as ever, arms folded across his chest like he was bracing for a hit.
For a long time, neither of them said anything.
Then Buck finally broke the silence, his voice low and uneven.
“I keep thinking about the kid from the fire.”
Eddie nodded, looking straight ahead. “Yeah.”
“I carried her out knowing she was already gone. I knew it, and I still—” Buck swallowed hard. “I couldn’t leave her in there.”
Eddie glanced over, something tight in his expression. “That’s not weakness, Buck. That’s who you are.”
Buck nodded slowly. “I came to your place that night because I didn’t know how to hold it anymore. I needed to talk. I needed you.”
“I know.”
“And we didn’t talk,” Buck said. “We… we ended up in bed again, and I don’t regret it, Eddie. I just—” He finally turned to face him, eyes searching. “I don’t know what it meant to you.”
Eddie was quiet for so long that Buck almost stood up and left.
Then, quietly, Eddie said, “It meant something.”
Buck blinked.
“I don’t know what to do with it,” Eddie added, still not looking at him. “I’ve spent most of my life thinking I knew who I was. What I was supposed to want. And then you happened. And now I don’t know anything except… I feel different when I’m with you.”
Buck’s breath caught.
Eddie finally looked at him, and there was so much raw honesty in his eyes it almost hurt. “That first night, it was about comfort. About needing you. But the second time… I knew what I was doing. And I still did it. Because I wanted you. Not just the comfort. You.”
Buck didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His heart was pounding in his throat.
“I thought it would be easier to pretend it didn’t happen,” Eddie admitted. “Because if I said it out loud, it’d become real. And real means… scary. Complicated.”
“Yeah,” Buck said, voice shaking just a little. “But pretending it didn’t happen? That’s been killing me.”
Eddie’s shoulder brushed his, solid and warm. “Me too.”
They sat in silence for a moment. And this time, it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t full of fear.
Just possibility.
“I’m scared,” Buck whispered.
“Me too,” Eddie said. “But I don’t want to keep running from this.”
Buck turned his head, searching his face. “So what do we do now?”
Eddie gave him the smallest, almost-shy smile. “We stop pretending.”
Buck smiled back, soft and a little shaky, like a weight had finally started to lift.
“Okay,” he said. “We stop pretending.”
They didn’t go back inside right away.
Buck leaned against Eddie’s shoulder, just enough to touch, and Eddie didn’t pull away. He stayed there—solid and steady and quiet in the way that Buck had always found comforting. The kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled.
It was new, this version of them. Exposed and uncertain. But it felt… right.
Eventually, Eddie spoke. “What happens when Chris finds out?”
Buck’s heart fluttered. Not in fear—but in surprise. Because that meant Eddie was already thinking ahead. Past tonight. Past the uncertainty. Past the fear.
“Well,” Buck said softly, “he already loves me.”
Eddie huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, he really does.”
“You okay with him knowing?”
Eddie nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think I want him to.”
Buck leaned back to look at him. “Then… what are we doing? Are we just going to see where it goes, or—?”
Eddie met his eyes. “I think I want to try. For real.”
Buck’s chest tightened in a good way. “Me too.”
A moment passed, and then Eddie’s lips twitched. “You’re not going to get weird about this, are you?”
Buck gave him an exaggerated scoff. “Me? I am the poster child for cool, calm, and emotionally well-adjusted.”
Eddie snorted. “Sure.”
But then Buck’s grin softened, and he reached over, hesitantly, fingers brushing Eddie’s. “I’m still scared.”
“I know,” Eddie said, taking his hand. “Me too. But we’ve been through worse.”
They sat like that for a while, fingers laced, sharing the kind of quiet that came with understanding—not avoidance.
When they eventually stood up to head back inside, Buck stopped short just before the door.
“Hey, Eddie?”
“Yeah?”
“If we do this… we’re not going back to pretending, right?”
Eddie looked at him, gaze steady. “No more pretending.”
And with that, Buck stepped forward, heart thudding, and kissed him—soft this time. Sure. Real.
No pretending. Not anymore.
Just them.