Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first indicator of peace, Eddie had long ago decided, wasn't silence. Silence was what came before an ambush, the held breath before a fight. Peace was noise. The right kind of noise.

From his position on the couch, ostensibly reading a department memo on new paramedic protocols that he’d already memorized, Eddie ran a quiet assessment of his surroundings. The space, in this case, was the open-plan living room and kitchen of their house. The time was 18:30 hours, Wednesday. The ambient sound was a low-level, rhythmic symphony of contentment, a layered harmony he could listen to for hours.

There was the soft, persistent click-clack of plastic on plastic as Christopher, lying on his stomach on the rug, conducted a delicate surgical procedure on a massive, half-built Lego spaceship. His brow was furrowed in a state of concentration so absolute it could have powered a small city. Every so often, he would mutter to himself—technical specifications, Eddie assumed, from the mind of an ten-year-old engineering prodigy. Eddie’s heart executed a slow, warm roll in his chest. That was his kid. His brilliant, beautiful son, safe and thriving in a world that finally felt stable under his feet.

The second component of the soundscape was the whisper-soft rustle of turning pages. That was Buck. He was sprawled on the floor opposite Christopher, propped up on his elbows and surrounded by a formidable barricade of LAPD academy textbooks and notebooks filled with his sharp, aggressive handwriting. A yellow highlighter was tucked behind his ear, and the tip of his tongue was just visible, caught between his teeth as he absorbed penal codes and pursuit procedures. The setting sun, streaming through the living room window, caught the gold in his hair, turning it into a halo of light that seemed entirely unfair for a man studying civil forfeiture law.

Eddie’s memo lay forgotten in his lap. This was the situation: all clear. All quiet on the home front. The quiet wasn't silence; it was peace. And it was a peace he’d never known, not really, until Buck had come crashing back into his life and somehow, miraculously, stayed. He’d rebuilt his life on a foundation of control, but Buck was the beautiful, terrifying chaos that had shown him what a home could really be.

The peace was punctuated by a new sound: the sharp, sizzling hiss of olive oil hitting a hot pan, followed by the rich, aromatic scent of garlic. Buck had risen from his textbook fortress and moved into the kitchen, his movements fluid and economical.

"Diaz!" Buck's voice cut through the room, not with a yell, but with the clear, carrying tone of a man used to being heard over the din of a firehouse. "I need a sous-chef. On the double."

Eddie smirked, folding the memo and placing it precisely on the coffee table. "Copy that."

He moved into the kitchen, the familiar, pleasant shift in dynamics settling over him. In almost every aspect of their lives, they were equals, partners. But in the kitchen, the chain of command was absolute. Buck was in charge, and Eddie was his ever-obedient subordinate. Buck cooked. Eddie chopped, stirred, and followed orders to the letter. It was a dynamic that worked with an almost terrifying efficiency, a simple structure in their complex lives that they both leaned into.

"Onions," Buck commanded, not even looking up from the chicken he was seasoning. "One large yellow. Diced. Five-millimeter cubes, uniform. You know the drill."

"I know the drill," Eddie confirmed, retrieving the onion and a knife.

He set to work at the cutting board, his hands moving with the practiced precision of a soldier disassembling a rifle. Top, tail, peel, halve. His cuts were swift and even, the blade a flash of steel under the warm kitchen lights. He could feel Buck’s presence at his side, a solid wall of warmth.

"Good form," Buck murmured, his voice low and close to Eddie's ear as he leaned over to check his progress. A shiver traced its way down Eddie's spine. "Clean cuts. No hesitation. You take orders well, pretty boy."

The praise, so casual and yet so specific, sent a thrill through him he wasn't about to analyze outside the privacy of their bedroom door. He just grunted in response, keeping his eyes down, a faint heat rising on his neck. "Just get it done."

"Damn right," Buck said, his voice full of laughter. He clapped Eddie on the shoulder and turned back to the stove, completely unaware of the minor system malfunction he'd just caused in Eddie's brain.

Eddie finished the onion and scraped the perfect, translucent cubes onto a plate. His official duties fulfilled, he leaned back against the counter, watching his partner work. He watched the confident set of Buck's shoulders, the way he moved with an athlete's unconscious grace, tasting the sauce and adding a pinch of salt without breaking rhythm. The man who had been a ghost in his memory for years, then a phantom on the Santa Monica Pier, then a walking tactical nuke at the 118, was now standing in his kitchen, wearing a faded LAPD academy t-shirt and arguing with a stubborn jar of capers. It was a dizzying collection of identities, but this one— this Buck, relaxed and domestic and completely in his element—was the one Eddie cherished most.

The sight triggered something in Eddie, a thought process that had been running on a loop in the back of his mind for weeks. It was his own secret mission, his private plan.

Operation: Ring Bearer.

The ring itself was secured. It was a simple gold band, unadorned and solid, currently nestled in a small, velvet-lined box. Its hiding place was deep in his sock drawer, a spot chosen for its high traffic and low suspicion. No one ever looked twice at a sock drawer. It was the perfect camouflage.

The objective was clear: place that ring on Evan Buckley’s finger. Secure a permanent alliance. Upgrade their partnership to a lifetime contract.

He’d done his homework. He’d observed Buck, studied his patterns. The evidence was undeniable: Buck was happy. They were happy. Christopher was happy. The timing felt right. All that was left was the follow-through. Finding the right moment to make his move.

That was the hard part. How do you plan the perfect moment when every moment already feels quietly perfect? How do you top a reality that had already exceeded every hope he’d allowed himself to have? The question wasn’t just about logistics; it was about doing justice to the sheer, improbable scale of what they had.

"Dinner's ready in five," Buck announced, pulling him from his strategic reverie. "Tell the Lego commander to wash up."

"Roger that," Eddie said, pushing off the counter.

He called Christopher, who reluctantly abandoned his spaceship for the bathroom sink. Soon, they were all seated at the small dining table. Christopher launched into a detailed explanation of his ship's hyperdrive functionality. Buck listened with genuine interest, asking clarifying questions about plasma conduits. And Eddie sat at the head of the table, looking at his boys, his family. The scent of Buck’s cooking filled the air, the sound of his son’s happy chatter filled his ears, and the sight of his partner’s loving smile filled his heart.

The gold band in his sock drawer suddenly felt heavier, a beautiful, terrifying weight of promise. The mission was a go. He just had to pick his moment. It had to be perfect.

***

The first attempt was planned with military precision. The opportunity presented itself the following Friday. Christopher was at a sleepover at a friend's house, a rare occurrence that left the house quiet and the evening open. The objective conditions were perfect.

Eddie’s plan was simple: a romantic dinner. Since his own culinary skills were classified as a potential war crime, he initiated a covert operation to a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. He returned with two bags of what smelled like heaven and plated the lasagna and caesar salad with the meticulous care of a bomb disposal expert. He lit candles. He put on a quiet, instrumental playlist Buck liked. He even remembered to use the fancy cloth napkins Shannon had bought them as a belated housewarming gift. The dining table was set, the lighting was low. The proposal zone was perfect.

He’d transferred the ring box from his sock drawer to the front pocket of his jeans, where it sat like a small, square grenade. His heart hammered against his ribs in a nervous, unsteady rhythm.

Buck came out of the shower, hair damp and smelling of soap and sandalwood, wearing a soft grey t-shirt and sweatpants. He stopped dead in the doorway to the dining room.

"Whoa," he said, his eyes wide as he took in the scene. "What's all this?"

"Just..." Eddie cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. "Thought we could have a nice dinner. Since we have the night to ourselves."

A slow, beautiful smile spread across Buck's face. "Eddie," he breathed, walking forward and wrapping his arms around Eddie's waist. "This is... really nice." He leaned in and gave him a soft, lingering kiss. "You didn't have to do all this."

"I wanted to," Eddie said, his own hands finding Buck's neck. Okay. Stage one complete. Target is relaxed and appreciative. Proceed to stage two.

They sat down to eat. The conversation was easy, flowing from talk about their week to plans for the weekend. Eddie kept steering it toward their relationship, their future, trying to build a conversational ramp to the proposal. He could feel the weight of the ring box in his pocket, a constant, heavy reminder of his mission.

He was just taking a breath, formulating the words, when Buck’s phone, sitting face-down on the table, buzzed to life.

Buck glanced at it. "It's Hondo," he said, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "Sorry, I should probably get this."

"Yeah, of course," Eddie said, his carefully constructed momentum deflating like a punctured tire.

Buck answered, his voice shifting immediately into a more formal, attentive register. "Chief Harrelson, sir... Yes, sir... I understand."

Eddie watched as Buck's entire demeanor changed. He sat up straighter, his eyes sharp and focused. A minute passed, then two. Eddie ate a piece of lasagna that now tasted like ash.

Then, Buck’s face broke into a grin so wide and bright it could have lit up the entire city.

"Sir, that's... that's incredible news," Buck said, his voice thick with emotion. "Yes, sir. I won't let you down. Thank you. Thank you, sir."

He hung up the phone, his eyes shining with an incandescent joy. He looked at Eddie, practically vibrating with energy.

"They're doing it," he said, his voice a half-laugh of disbelief. "Hondo pulled the strings. The board approved the waiver. As long as I graduate in the top five percent of my class, I can go straight to SWAT selection. I get to skip the mandatory patrol years, Eddie. I get to go straight to selection."

He was beaming, so full of pure, unadulterated happiness that it was a physical force in the room. He launched into the details of what it meant, the accelerated timeline, the challenge of it all. And Eddie, watching him, felt a surge of pride so fierce it almost knocked the wind out of him. This was Buck's dream, the thing he'd been working toward with a singular, relentless focus.

The ring box in his pocket suddenly felt like a lead weight. How could he possibly make this moment about them, about a proposal, when Buck had just been handed the key to his entire future? It would be like trying to land a helicopter in the middle of a fireworks display.

Mission aborted, he thought. The proposal could wait. Tonight was for Buck. But the pride, the sheer overwhelming adoration he felt watching Buck light up like a star, didn't just vanish. It coiled low in his gut, transmuting into something else. Something hotter.

He stood up, pushing his chair back. Buck stopped mid-sentence, looking at him with a questioning smile. Eddie didn’t say a word. He rounded the table, took Buck’s hand, and pulled him to his feet.

"Eddie? What—"

Eddie silenced him with a kiss, hard and deep and full of everything he couldn’t say. It wasn't the gentle, romantic kiss he'd planned for the proposal. This was different. This was worship. He pulled back just enough to look Buck in the eyes, his own gaze dark with intent.

"You are incredible, you know that?" he murmured, his voice rough. "Let's celebrate. Properly."

Buck's eyes widened for a second in surprise, then darkened in understanding, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "Yes, sir," he breathed, and let Eddie lead him toward the bedroom.

***

His second attempt was designed to be foolproof. It was Sunday morning, his turf, his area of expertise: waffles. Everyone knew Eddie Diaz made the best goddamn waffles in the state of California. It was his one, undisputed culinary skill, and he decided to leverage it.

The plan was to create the perfect, cozy family morning. He had the ring box in the pocket of his sweatpants. Buck was at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the paper on his tablet, looking unfairly handsome in the morning light. Christopher was chattering away about a new video game. The smell of vanilla and melting butter filled the air. The scene was domestic, it was real, it was them.

Eddie plated the last waffle, a perfect golden-brown specimen, topping it with whipped cream and strawberries for Buck. This was it. He would bring the plate over, kneel down beside Buck's chair as if to present it, and then he would make his move. Simple. Heartfelt. Waffle-fueled.

He took a deep breath, picked up the plate, and took a step forward.

And that’s when the kitchen sink made a noise like a dying sea monster.

It was a low, guttural gurgle-gurgle-CHOKE , followed by a shudder that seemed to vibrate through the floor. A foul, sulfurous smell, the ghost of last week's forgotten broccoli, began to rise from the drain.

"What the hell was that?" Buck asked, looking up from his tablet, his nose wrinkled in disgust.

Christopher piped up, "It sounds like the creature from level six."

Before Eddie could even process the olfactory assault, a geyser of murky, grey water erupted from the garbage disposal's side of the sink, splashing onto the counter and floor.

The perfect moment shattered. The romantic, waffle-scented air was now thick with the stench of plumbing death. The mission wasn't just aborted; it was sunk, drowned in a tide of greasy dishwater.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Buck said, already on his feet and moving toward the disaster zone. He was in fixer mode now, his brow furrowed as he peered under the sink. "Looks like the disposal finally gave up the ghost. Hand me that flashlight, will you?"

Eddie just stood there for a second, holding the plate with the perfect, beautiful, and now completely irrelevant waffle. He looked at the spreading puddle of grey water on his floor. He looked at the back of Buck's head as he investigated the plumbing. He looked at the ring box-shaped lump in his pocket.

He had survived IEDs in Afghanistan. He had survived being held hostage while Buck faced down two armed men. He had survived almost drowning at the bottom of a well. And he had just been defeated by a broken garbage disposal.

He placed the waffle on the table with a sigh of utter defeat and went to get the flashlight.

***

His third and final attempt, a few days later, was meant to be the opposite of the first two. No planning. No props. Just pure spontaneity. The best moments they had were often the unplanned ones, the quiet collisions in the course of their normal lives.

The scene was set. It was late. Christopher was asleep in his room. They were both on the couch, legs tangled together, watching some mindless action movie. The house was still, wrapped in the comfortable quiet of a family at rest. Buck’s head was on his shoulder, his breathing slow and even. The mood was soft, intimate, perfect.

Now, Eddie thought. This is it. No distractions. Just us.

His hand casually went to his pocket, fingers brushing against the velvet of the box. He turned his head slightly, about to speak, to finally say the words.

And then Buck shifted, propping himself up on an elbow to look at him. "You know," he said, his voice lazy with contentment, "I had dinner with Shannon yesterday. Just to catch up while you were on shift."

Eddie blinked. "Oh yeah? How was it?"

"It was good," Buck said, a mischievous glint in his eye that Eddie was only just beginning to recognize as a precursor to trouble. "She told me the most amazing story. About you. High school. Something about a poetry slam?"

Eddie froze. A cold dread, long dormant, began to creep up his spine. "She didn't."

"Oh, she did," Buck said, grinning now. "She said you, Mr. Stoic Army Man, once got up on stage in a black turtleneck and recited a love poem you wrote for her that apparently rhymed 'eyes' with 'surprise' four separate times."

The memory, buried under years of deliberate suppression, came roaring back. The turtleneck. The sweaty palms. The way the entire cafeteria had gone silent. It wasn't the memory of a grand, romantic gesture. It was the memory of playing a part. Of doing what he thought a good Catholic boy with a serious girlfriend was supposed to do, trying to convince himself as much as her. It was, without question, the single most mortifying moment of his teenage years.

"It was for an English class extra credit," Eddie mumbled, his face burning. "It wasn't a slam."

"She said you snapped your fingers at the end," Buck pressed, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "Eddie. Did you snap your fingers?"

Eddie buried his face in his hands, groaning. "I was sixteen. I thought that's what you were supposed to do."

Buck completely lost it then, dissolving into helpless, wheezing laughter. He collapsed against Eddie's chest, gasping for air. "A turtleneck! Oh my god, I would pay actual money to see that. Pretty boy poet ."

And just like that, the moment was gone. Annihilated. Vaporized by a thirteen-year-old memory of performative angst. The intimate, romantic silence had been replaced by Buck's infectious, hysterical laughter. Eddie found himself fighting a smile, then failing completely as Buck's laughter became his own, a genuine laugh at the absurdity of the boy he used to be.

He pulled the empty hand from his pocket. The ring could stay there for now. Trying to propose in the face of such a perfectly deployed comedic grenade was a fool's errand.

He was beginning to suspect that proposing to Evan Buckley was going to be the most challenging tactical operation of his entire life.

***

A week later, Operation: Ring Bearer had been officially stood down. Not cancelled, just... indefinitely postponed. Eddie had mentally surrendered. The universe, it seemed, was actively conspiring against him, and a good soldier knew when to retreat and wait for a more favorable engagement. The ring box remained in his sock drawer, a silent monument to his failed campaign.

It was a Thursday night, close to midnight. The day had been brutal. Eddie’s shift had been a relentless series of high-stress calls, leaving him with a bone-deep exhaustion that felt more like a low-grade fever. Buck had just gotten home from the academy, having endured a full-day physical qualification test that had left him moving with the stiff, deliberate gait of a man who had been tenderized with a meat mallet.

They were in the living room, the only light coming from the muted blue flicker of the television playing some nature documentary about deep-sea fish. They hadn’t even had the energy to make it to the couch. They were both on the floor, backs against the sofa, legs stretched out, a comfortable foot of space between them. They were too tired to talk, too tired to touch. They were just co-existing, sharing the same air, decompressing in silence.

Eddie’s head was tipped back against the cushions, his eyes closed. He was mentally filing away the day’s failures. The universe wasn't just against his proposal; it was against him having a single coherent thought. He felt Buck shift beside him, the soft rustle of fabric. He probably thought Buck was just trying to find a more comfortable position for his aching muscles.

"Eddie."

Buck’s voice was quiet, rough with exhaustion, but it cut through the fog in Eddie’s brain. He opened his eyes and turned his head. Buck was looking at him, his expression unreadable in the dim light. The usual easy humor in his eyes was gone, replaced by an intensity that made Eddie sit up a little straighter.

"Yeah?" Eddie asked, his own voice gravelly.

Buck didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just looked at him, his gaze searching. Eddie could see the flicker of a thousand thoughts behind his eyes. He was used to Buck’s transparency, the way his emotions were usually right there on the surface. This was different. This was a deep, quiet current.

"I’ve been thinking," Buck began, his voice still low. "About... everything. About Afghanistan. About the years we lost. About finding you again at the 118." He took a breath, a small, unsteady thing. "I came to LA for you, you know. Chasing a ghost. I didn't know what I was looking for, really. I just knew I had to try."

Eddie’s heart gave a painful thud against his ribs. He didn't speak, didn't dare to. This felt fragile, important. He just listened.

"And I found you," Buck continued, a note of wonder in his voice. "And you had this whole life. You had Christopher. And it was so much more than I ever could have imagined. And I was so scared I was going to mess it up, that I was going to be too much, that I was going to break this perfect, stable thing you’d built for your son."

He finally turned his body fully toward Eddie, his knee brushing against Eddie’s. "But you let me in. You and Chris, you just... made room for me. And this place..." He gestured vaguely at the dark, quiet room around them. "This house, this life with you, waking up to you and making Christopher’s lunch and fighting over the remote... This feels like home. My home. The only place I've ever felt like I truly belong."

Tears were starting to burn at the back of Eddie’s eyes. The exhaustion, the stress of the day, it was all melting away, replaced by a wave of emotion so powerful it left him breathless. He could feel where this was going, but his brain refused to process it. It was impossible. It wasn’t planned.

"Eddie," Buck said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, raw and vulnerable and stronger than anything Eddie had ever heard. He reached out, not to touch him, but just holding his hand open in the space between them. An offering. "I don't want to wait. I don't want to waste another minute of this. I don't need a perfect moment, because every moment with you is the perfect moment."

He took one last, shuddering breath.

"Edmundo Diaz, will you marry me?"

The world stopped. The deep-sea fish on the television swam on, oblivious. But for Eddie, everything just... ceased. The carefully constructed plans, the failed attempts, the self-imposed pressure—it all crumbled into dust. This wasn't a tactical maneuver. This wasn't a grand, cinematic gesture. This was Buck, exhausted and sore, on the floor of their living room, cutting through all the bullshit and laying his heart bare with a terrifying, beautiful simplicity.

It was more perfect than anything he could have ever engineered.

He couldn't find his voice. The word was trapped in his throat, a knot of pure, unadulterated joy. He just stared at Buck, at the hope and the fear and the overwhelming love shining in his eyes, and nodded. A single, jerky nod. Then another.

"Yes," he finally managed to choke out, the word feeling impossibly small and yet big enough to contain the entire universe. "Yes. Of course, yes."

A slow, brilliant smile of pure relief broke across Buck's face, and he surged forward, closing the space between them and capturing Eddie's mouth in a kiss that was messy and wet with tears and utterly perfect.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless, Buck was grinning. "Good. That's... good." He laughed, a shaky, happy sound. "Because I, uh, I got you something."

He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a small, dark blue velvet box. He fumbled with it for a second before opening it.

Inside, nestled on the cushion, was a simple, unadorned gold band.

And for one, insane, paranoid second, Eddie's brain short-circuited. His blood ran cold. That's my ring. The thought was immediate, illogical, and absolute. That's my ring. He found it. He found it in my sock drawer and he's proposing to me with my own ring. How did he find it? Was my camouflage that bad? Is he messing with me? Is this a test?

He must have looked as utterly poleaxed as he felt, because Buck's triumphant smile faltered, replaced by a look of concern. "Eddie? What is it? You don't like it? I can take it back, we can pick something else—"

"No," Eddie said, shaking his head to clear the sudden burst of static. "No, it's... it's perfect. It's just..." He stared at the ring, then at Buck's worried face. "Where did you get it?"

"Uh, a jewelry store downtown?" Buck said, looking completely baffled. "The one near that good coffee place? Why?"

The sheer, earnest confusion on Buck's face was enough to shatter Eddie's paranoid fantasy. Of course Buck hadn't found his ring. They had just, impossibly, bought the exact same one. The absurdity of it, the cosmic rightness of it, hit him like a physical blow. He started to laugh. A real, deep, helpless laugh that was half relief and half pure joy.

Buck was still looking at him like he’d completely lost his mind. "Okay, now I'm definitely confused. Are these happy tears or 'my boyfriend is having a psychotic break' tears?"

"Happy," Eddie gasped, wiping at his eyes. "They're happy." He took a deep breath, trying to get himself under control. "Stay right there. Don't move."

He scrambled to his feet, his tired muscles protesting, and practically sprinted to their bedroom. He went straight to his dresser, pulled open the sock drawer, and retrieved his own small, velvet-lined box. His heart was hammering in his chest, a wild, joyful drumbeat this time.

He walked back into the living room where Buck was still sitting on the floor, looking utterly bewildered. Eddie sat down in front of him and, without a word, opened his own box.

Buck stared down at the identical gold band nestled inside. His mouth fell open. He looked from the ring in Eddie's box to the one in his own, then back again. A slow, dawning comprehension spread across his face, followed by a look of pure, unadulterated delight.

"No way," he whispered. "You were...?"

Eddie just nodded, a sheepish, happy grin spreading across his face. "I was trying. For two weeks. You and the universe kept getting in the way." A pout he didn't even try to suppress formed on his lips. "I was going to propose."

Buck threw his head back and laughed, a loud, beautiful sound that filled the entire house. "Oh, this is so much better." He leaned forward, his eyes dancing with mischief, and cupped Eddie's face in his hands. "Finders-keepers, losers-weepers, pretty boy."

He kissed him then, a long, slow, searing kiss that tasted of victory and laughter and the promise of a thousand more moments just like this. When he pulled away, he picked up his ring box and slid the simple gold band onto Eddie's finger. It was a perfect fit.

"Looks good on you, Diaz," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Eddie looked down at the ring, a solid, shining circle of gold on his hand. Then he picked up his own ring and, with a hand that was surprisingly steady, slid it onto Buck's finger.

"You too, Buckley," he said, his voice catching. "You too."

***

The next morning, Eddie woke up slowly, drawn from a deep and dreamless sleep by a pleasant, full-body ache. He was cocooned in warmth, Buck's body a solid line of heat pressed against his back, a heavy arm draped possessively over his waist. It was their usual sleeping arrangement—Eddie tucked securely against Buck's chest—but this morning felt different. He shifted slightly, a soft groan escaping his lips as his pleasantly sore muscles protested—a quiet reminder of their enthusiastic, hushed celebrations with Buck’s hand clamped over his mouth to muffle the sounds, so as not to wake their son up. The movement brought his left hand, resting on Buck's forearm, into his line of sight. And there it was. The ring felt familiar on his finger—muscle memory, maybe. But it didn’t sit the same way it once had. It felt solid, real, a permanent anchor in the shifting tides of his life. And just above it, on the arm holding him, was its twin, a matching glint of gold against Buck's skin. The sight of them together, two identical bands in the dim morning light, sent a surge of something so warm and fierce through him it almost hurt. A slow, stupid smile spread across his face. He was home.

Telling Christopher was the first and most important part of the new mission. They waited until breakfast. Eddie made waffles—it felt right, a way of reclaiming the failed attempt—and they all sat down at the table. The air was thick with a giddy, unspoken energy.

"So," Buck began, looking from Eddie to Christopher, his eyes sparkling. "Your dad and I have something we want to tell you."

Christopher looked between them, his expression curious. He took a slow sip of his orange juice. "Okay."

Eddie took a deep breath. "Buck and I... we're getting married."

He watched his son's face, his heart hammering in his chest. For all his own certainty, this was the only validation that truly mattered. Christopher’s eyes widened. A slow smile spread across his face, a mirror of the one Eddie had seen on Buck’s just hours before. It was pure, uncomplicated joy.

"Really?" Christopher asked, his voice full of light.

"Really," Buck confirmed, his voice thick.

Christopher didn't say anything else. He carefully placed his fork on his plate, pushed his chair back, and stood. He took a moment to steady himself before walking the short distance around the table without his crutches, his movements deliberate and focused. He wrapped his arms first around Eddie’s neck, then turned and threw his arms around Buck’s, pulling them into a tight, three-way hug.

"Good," Christopher mumbled into Buck's shoulder. "Now it's official."

Eddie felt a tear escape and track down his cheek. He met Buck’s shining eyes over their son's head, and in that moment, he knew he was the luckiest man on earth.

Later that morning, Carla arrived to pick Christopher up. She bustled in, all warm energy and efficiency, herding Christopher toward the door.

"Okay, Superman, got your backpack? Homework? Don't forget your history project is due Monday." She turned to Eddie, a list in her hand, and then she stopped. Her eyes fixed on the new gold band on his left hand.

Her professional demeanor melted away. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face, one that reached all the way to her kind eyes. She didn't say a word. She just lifted her gaze to meet Eddie’s, raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and gave him a small, satisfied nod. It was a look that said, It's about damn time.

Eddie felt a flush of heat rise up his neck, but he couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face. "Yeah," he said quietly.

"Yeah," she repeated, her smile widening. She patted his arm, a gesture full of warmth and genuine affection. "I'm happy for you, Eddie. For all of you." And with that, she turned and ushered Christopher out the door, leaving Eddie feeling seen and supported in a way that settled deep in his bones.

On Saturday evening, they went to Pepa’s for their weekly family dinner. The house was already buzzing with noise and the incredible smell of her cooking. Abuela was sitting in her favorite armchair, watching a telenovela, while Pepa darted around the kitchen. Shannon was already there, sitting at the table with Christopher, helping him with a tricky part of his history project.

"Hey!" Shannon said, looking up as they came in. "Just in time. We were about to start taking bets on whether Alexander the Great's horse was actually named Bucephalus."

"It was," Buck said immediately, dropping a kiss on Christopher's head and sliding into the chair next to Shannon. "And he was supposedly untamable until Alexander figured out he was afraid of his own shadow."

Shannon grinned at him. "You are such a nerd."

"You love it," Buck shot back, and Eddie watched them, a feeling of profound contentment washing over him. The easy friendship between Buck and Shannon had become one of the most unexpected and welcome fixtures of his life; they had bonded instantly, united in their shared history with him and, more importantly, in their mutual adoration for Christopher. This was his family. Messy, unconventional, and perfect.

They waited until they were all gathered around the big dining table, plates piled high with food. The conversation flowed around them, loud and overlapping. Finally, during a lull, Christopher cleared his throat.

"My dad and Buck have an announcement," he said, his voice clear and proud.

Every head turned toward them. Eddie felt a familiar nervous flutter, but Buck reached under the table and squeezed his hand, his thumb stroking over the new ring.

"We're getting married," Buck said, his voice full of a quiet, steady joy that seemed to fill the entire room.

For a second, there was silence. Then, Pepa let out a shriek of pure delight that made Abuela jump. She was on her feet in an instant, rushing around the table to pull them both into bone-crushing hugs, tears already streaming down her face as she rained kisses on their cheeks and chattered a mile a minute in a mix of English and Spanish.

Abuela was more reserved. She rose slowly from her chair and came toward them. She didn't say anything at first. She just looked at them, her dark, wise eyes moving from Eddie's face to Buck's. Then, she reached out and gently took Eddie's left hand, her thumb tracing the line of the gold band. She did the same with Buck's. A slow, beautiful smile bloomed on her face.

"Ya es hora," she said, her voice soft but firm. It is time. "El amor es una bendición. Cuídense el uno al otro." Love is a blessing. Take care of each other. She patted both their hands before returning to her seat, leaving Eddie with a lump in his throat. Her blessing, so simple and profound, felt like the final, most important seal of approval.

Later, as Buck and Pepa were clearing the table, Shannon caught his eye and gestured for him to follow her out to the small back porch. The air was cool and smelled of jasmine.

"So," she said, leaning against the railing. "Mr. and Mr. Buckley-Diaz. Has a nice ring to it."

"We haven't gotten that far yet," Eddie said with a small smile.

She was quiet for a moment, just looking out at the dark yard. "I'm really happy for you, Eddie," she said, her voice soft and completely sincere. "You deserve this. You deserve to be this happy." She turned to him, her expression open and honest. "He's a good man. He loves you, and he loves our son. That's all I could ever ask for."

The last vestiges of the guilt and duty that had defined their relationship for so long finally evaporated in the warm night air. He was left with nothing but gratitude for this woman, for the journey they had taken from a broken marriage to this easy, powerful friendship.

"Thank you," he said, and he meant it more than he could say.

He looked back through the sliding glass door at the scene inside. At his son, laughing with his great-aunt. At his abuela, watching them all with a serene smile. And at his fiancé, his partner, his home, who was now engaged in a heated debate with Pepa about the proper way to load a dishwasher.

His family. All of them. The thought settled in his chest, a solid, comforting weight. He was exactly where he was supposed to be.

***

The high from the family dinner lasted for two days. Two days of stolen glances at the ring on Buck’s hand, of quiet, shared smiles, of feeling utterly and completely secure in his new reality. But by Saturday afternoon, an old, familiar unease began to creep in. It was a sense of unfinished business. A loose end he knew he had to tie off, no matter how much he wanted to ignore it.

His sisters. Adriana and Sophia.

He hadn't spoken to either of them since the brief, stilted phone call after his parents had dropped the custody suit. He knew where they stood—firmly in his parents' corner, their silence a damning verdict on his choices. But a small, stupid, and stubbornly hopeful part of him, the part that remembered shared childhood secrets and late-night laughter, thought that maybe, just maybe, this news would be different. This wasn't about a lawsuit. This was about happiness.

He found himself standing in the quiet hallway of their home, his own phone feeling heavy in his hand. Buck was in the living room with Christopher, the sounds of a competitive Mario Kart tournament drifting down the hall. They were safe. They were happy. And Eddie needed to do this one last thing to secure the perimeter of that happiness.

He scrolled through his contacts until he found Adriana's name. They had been the closest, once. He took a deep breath, the way he used to before a mission, and pressed the call button.

Buck must have sensed the shift in the atmosphere. The sounds of the video game quieted. Eddie didn't have to look to know that Buck was watching him, his expression probably full of that quiet, steady concern that always made Eddie feel like he could withstand anything. Buck gave him his space, but his presence was a silent, solid support at his back.

The phone rang three times before she picked up.

"Eddie?" Adriana's voice was tight, surprised.

"Hey, Adri," he said, trying to sound casual, but his voice came out strained. "You got a minute?"

"I guess. I'm on my way to the store. Is everything okay? Is it Christopher?" The immediate jump to crisis, the assumption that he would only call with bad news, was a small, sharp sting.

"No, Chris is fine. Everyone's fine," he said quickly. "I just... I had some news I wanted to share."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Okay..."

He took the plunge. "Buck and I are getting married."

Silence. It stretched for so long that Eddie thought the call might have dropped. It was a cold, heavy silence, nothing like the warm, comfortable quiet he shared with Buck. This was the silence of judgment.

"Oh," Adriana said finally. The single word was flat, devoid of any emotion. "Wow. That's... fast."

"It's been a long time coming, actually," Eddie said, his jaw tightening.

"Has it?" she asked, and now her voice was laced with something else. Not anger. Pity. It was so much worse. "Eddie, are you sure about this? After everything that's happened? The lawsuit... Shannon... Don't you think you should maybe just... slow down? For Christopher's sake?"

Every word was a carefully chosen dart, dipped in the poison of feigned concern. She was using his son against him, just like their parents had. The hope that had flickered in his chest moments before was instantly extinguished, leaving behind a cold, familiar ache.

"Christopher is happy, Adriana. He's thrilled."

"He's a child, Eddie. He doesn't understand," she said, her voice taking on the patient, condescending tone their mother always used when she was about to deliver a lecture. "Mamá and Papá are just worried about you. We all are. You've been through so much. We just want you to be stable."

Stable. The word hit him like a slap. He was more stable now than he had ever been in his entire life. He had built a life, a home. He had found a love that was so real and profound it had healed parts of him he didn't even know were broken. And they called it unstable. They looked at his happiness and saw a pathology.

He realized then, with a soul-crushing finality, that it would never change. They would never see him. They would only ever see the son who had disappointed them, the brother who had broken the rules. The chasm between his reality and their perception of it was too vast to ever be bridged.

"I am stable," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "And I'm happy. I'm sorry you can't see that."

"Eddie, don't be like that—"

"I have to go," he interrupted, his voice hollow. "Goodbye, Adriana."

He ended the call before she could reply, his thumb pressing the screen with a sense of grim finality. He stood there in the hallway, staring at the blank screen of his phone, the silence of the house pressing in on him. It wasn't anger he felt. It was a deep, profound grief. Not for the sister he had just spoken to, but for the one he remembered from his childhood, the one he had foolishly hoped might still be in there somewhere. He was mourning a ghost.

He felt more than heard Buck approach from behind. Strong arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him back against a solid, warm chest. Buck didn't say anything. He didn't offer empty platitudes or tell him it would be okay. He just held him. Buck rested his chin on Eddie's shoulder, his breath warm against Eddie's neck, and squeezed.

Eddie sagged back into the embrace, the rigid control he maintained over himself crumbling. He let his head fall back against Buck's shoulder, the weight of the phone in his hand suddenly unbearable.

"I've got you," Buck murmured, his voice a low rumble against Eddie's back. "I'm right here. Just breathe."

And Eddie did. He let go of the anger, the disappointment, the deep, aching sadness. He let it all drain out of him, leaving him feeling empty and raw. But he wasn't alone. He was being held. He was being anchored. Buck's arms were a fortress around him, a shield against the ghosts of his past.

The pain wasn't gone. But in the solid, unwavering circle of his fiancé's arms, it was tolerable. It was a distant signal from a battle he had already won. He was home, and the only family that mattered was right here in this house with him. Always.

***

The official notice for his paramedic certification arrived in the mail on a Tuesday. It was a simple certificate in a plain manila envelope, but holding it in his hands felt like a significant victory, the culmination of months of hard work and the final, definitive closing of a chapter. He was no longer just a firefighter. He was a paramedic.

The satisfaction, however, was short-lived, quickly replaced by a low-grade, professional anxiety. He was certified, yes, but Station 118’s A-shift already had two of the best paramedics in the city in Hen and Chimney. There was no room for a third. He was in a state of professional limbo.

For the past week, he’d spent his evenings after Christopher was asleep quietly scrolling through LAFD transfer postings on his laptop. The thought of leaving the 118, the only station he’d ever known in LA, left a sour taste in his mouth. It was familiar. It was, in its own complicated way, a kind of home. But staying meant shelving the skills he’d just fought so hard to acquire. It felt like a waste. The alternative—a new station, a new shift, a new captain, a new crew—felt like a step backward, a disruption to the hard-won stability he cherished.

He was mulling this over at the station the next day, leaning against the railing of the loft and staring down at the gleaming engine below, when Chimney approached him.

"Diaz," he said, his tone unusually subdued. "Congrats on the cert, man. Heard you passed with flying colors."

"Thanks, Chimney," Eddie said, turning to face him. He managed a small, tight smile. "Appreciate it."

Chimney rocked back on his heels, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He looked uncharacteristically awkward, his usual breezy confidence nowhere in sight. "So, uh... Bobby mentioned you were looking at transfer options."

"Just weighing my options," Eddie said, his voice noncommittal. He didn't particularly want to have this conversation with Chimney, of all people. Their relationship was one of professional respect, but they’d never been close.

"Right, right. Of course," Chimney said, nodding a little too vigorously. He cleared his throat. "Look, can I... can I talk to you for a second? It's, uh... it's personal. It's about Buck."

Eddie’s entire body went on high alert. His posture straightened, his friendly demeanor vanishing in an instant, replaced by a cold, guarded stillness. His internal threat assessment spiked into the red. Any conversation that started with "it's about Buck" was a potential threat until proven otherwise.

"What about him?" Eddie asked, his voice flat and hard.

Chimney seemed to shrink a little under his gaze. "Okay, look, there's no easy way to say this, so I'm just gonna say it," he stammered, running a hand over his head. "My girlfriend... I've been seeing someone for a while now. It's serious. And her name is Maddie."

Eddie just stared at him, his expression unreadable. The name meant nothing to him on its own.

"Okay," Chimney continued, taking a deep breath. "Her last name... is Buckley."

The grenade dropped. Eddie felt the impact in his gut, a cold, sickening lurch. He didn't move, didn't even blink, but his mind was racing, processing the new intelligence with terrifying speed. Maddie Buckley. Buck's sister. The one who raised him. The one who left him. The one who never answered. The one who never called. The pieces clicked into place with the horrifying finality of a chambered round.

"She's a 9-1-1 dispatcher," Chimney plowed on, clearly desperate to get it all out. "She moved here a while back, after... after a bad situation. So we're on a date the other night, and I make this dumb joke. I say, 'You know, it's funny your last name is Buckley, 'cause we had this probie for a while, Evan Buckley. Total golden retriever, but a good guy. Any relation?' I was just kidding, you know?"

Chimney paused, and the memory of the moment was clearly etched on his face. "And Eddie... she just went white. Like she'd seen a ghost. Then she tells me... she has a brother named Evan. And they haven't spoken in years."

Eddie remained silent, his face a mask of stone. He was assessing the situation, the potential damage. He knew every painful detail of Buck's history with his sister, the wound he carried from her abandonment. And now, that wound was here, in LA, dating his colleague.

"She wants to see him, Eddie," Chimney said, his voice pleading now. "She had no idea he was here. She's... a wreck, honestly. But I know things are... complicated. I know Buck doesn't really talk about his family. So I didn't want to just... ambush him. Or you. I figured talking to you first, giving you a heads-up, was the right thing to do."

The "right thing to do." Chimney's well-intentioned meddling had just armed a bomb and handed it to Eddie. He was now the designated carrier of this news, news that had the potential to shatter the peace Buck had fought so hard to find. He felt a surge of cold fury at Chimney for his clumsiness, but he pushed it down. It was unproductive. The damage was done. Now it was about containment.

"Thank you for telling me first," Eddie said, the words tasting like metal in his mouth. It was the only thing he could manage.

"Yeah, man, of course," Chimney said, looking relieved that Eddie wasn't yelling at him. "So... what do you think? What should we do?"

Eddie looked at Chimney, at his earnest, worried face, and felt a profound sense of distance. Chimney had no idea what he was asking. He had no concept of the delicate ecosystem of Buck's emotional state, of the years of work it had taken to build him back up.

"I'll handle it," Eddie said, his voice leaving no room for argument. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.

He turned away from Chimney, effectively dismissing him, and stared back down at the fire engine. He was no longer thinking about transfers or certifications. He was planning a new operation, the most delicate one of his life: how to tell the man he loved that a ghost from his past had just walked back into his life, and how to protect him from the fallout.

Eddie carried the information home like it was an unexploded ordnance. It sat heavy and cold in his gut all afternoon, a toxic secret in the otherwise happy, domestic bubble of their home. He tried to act normal, helping Christopher with his homework, listening to Buck talk about a particularly grueling training exercise at the academy, but his responses were clipped, his focus a million miles away. He was a soldier on watch, scanning the horizon for a threat only he could see.

He waited until Christopher was in bed, the house settling into its nightly quiet. He was standing in the kitchen, methodically wiping down the already clean counters, trying to formulate a plan, when Buck’s voice cut through his thoughts.

"Hey."

Eddie turned. Buck was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, his phone nowhere in sight. His expression was soft, but his eyes were sharp with concern. He’d been watching him. Of course he had. Buck noticed everything.

"You've been a million miles away since you got home from the station," Buck said. It wasn't an accusation, just a statement of fact. "Talk to me, Eddie. What's wrong?"

So much for a planned, tactical briefing. Buck had just bypassed his defenses completely. Eddie let out a slow breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. The exhaustion of the decision, of carrying this weight alone for hours, settled deep in his bones. He gestured to the couch. "Sit down. We need to talk."

The shift in tone was immediate. Buck’s easy posture straightened, and he followed Eddie to the living room, his movements now wary, alert. They sat on the couch, a careful foot of space between them.

Eddie didn't start right away. He took a moment, gathering his thoughts, wanting to deliver this intel with as little collateral damage as possible.

"I talked to Chimney at the station today," he began, his voice level.

Buck’s brow furrowed in confusion. "Okay...?"

"He's dating someone. A 9-1-1 dispatcher." Eddie held Buck’s gaze, refusing to look away. "Her name is Maddie. Maddie Buckley."

He watched the name hit Buck. It wasn't a loud explosion. It was a silent, devastating implosion. The light in Buck’s eyes didn't just dim; it was extinguished, snuffed out in an instant. The easy, relaxed lines of his body went rigid, his shoulders squaring as if bracing for a physical blow. The charming, happy man who had been sitting on the couch a second ago was gone, replaced by someone Eddie hadn't seen for a long time. The operator. The soldier. His face became a blank, impenetrable mask, his emotions locked down so tight they might as well not exist.

He didn't speak. He didn't even seem to be breathing. He just stared at Eddie, his eyes suddenly cold and distant, like a winter ocean.

Eddie gave him a moment, letting the silence stretch, giving him time to process the initial shock. Then he continued, his voice still quiet and steady. "Chimney didn't know until recently. He made a joke about your last name, and she... she told him."

Buck’s jaw clenched, a single, tiny muscle twitching in his otherwise frozen face. He finally looked away, his gaze fixing on some point on the far wall.

"She's here," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered in a voice that was flat, hollowed out, and completely devoid of emotion.

"Yeah," Eddie confirmed softly. "He said she wants to see you."

Buck let out a short, sharp, mirthless laugh. "She wants to see me. Now." He shook his head, a small, jerky movement. "She leaves when I'm eleven. Sixteen years, Eddie. Not a single phone call that wasn't disconnected. Not a single letter that wasn't returned to sender. And now she wants to see me."

The pain was there, sharp and raw beneath the operator's control. It wasn't the backstory Eddie needed to hear; it was the fresh agony of the present. The sheer audacity of her request.

Eddie’s heart ached for him. The old Eddie would have been terrified by this silence, by this sudden, chilling distance. He would have tried to fill the void with words, or worse, picked a fight. But he wasn't that man anymore. Buck had taught him how to sit in the quiet, how to hold space for the pain without trying to fix it.

He moved from his spot on the couch, closing the space between them. He didn't say anything. He just rested his hand on Buck's knee, a simple, solid point of contact. A reminder. I'm here.

Buck finally let out a breath, a long, shaky exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of years with it. He still didn't look at Eddie. "What does she want?" he whispered, and the mask finally cracked, just for a second, revealing the raw, bewildered agony underneath. The little brother who had been left behind.

That was all the opening Eddie needed. He slid closer, wrapping an arm around Buck's rigid shoulders, pulling him in. For a moment, Buck resisted, his body still locked down tight, before he finally, finally sagged against Eddie, his head dropping forward.

Eddie held him, one hand cradling the back of Buck's head, the other rubbing circles on his back. He was an anchor in the storm, a solid wall against the ghosts.

"Okay," Eddie murmured into his hair, his voice a low, steady promise. "Then we don't do anything. Not until you're ready." He paused, pressing a kiss to Buck's temple. "And whatever you decide—if you want to see her tomorrow, or if you never want to see her again in your life—I'm with you. One hundred percent. We'll handle it together."

Buck didn't answer. He just shuddered, a full-body tremor, and leaned more heavily into Eddie's embrace, his hands coming up to fist in the front of Eddie's shirt, holding on like he was drowning. Eddie held him through it, waiting for the soldier to reassert control.

After a long time, Buck pulled back, just enough to look at him. The operator was back in his eyes, but this time, it wasn't cold. It was focused. Resolute.

"I have to see her," he said, his voice stronger now. "I don't know if I can forgive her. I don't know if I even want to. But I have to know why. I need the intel, Eddie. I need to close the file."

It was about finishing the mission. It was about getting the final piece of the puzzle so he could finally put it away for good. Eddie felt a surge of pride. Even when faced with this, the deepest wound of his life, Buck was still a fighter.

"Okay," Eddie said, giving his shoulders a firm squeeze. "Then that's what we'll do. You tell me when and where, and I'll be right there with you."

Buck looked at him then, really looked at him, and the gratitude in his eyes was so profound it almost buckled Eddie's knees. "I think... I think I need to do this part alone," he said, his voice still a little shaky. "But knowing you'll be here when I get back... that's my rally point. That's everything."

"Always," Eddie promised, his voice a solid, unwavering vow. "I'll always be your rally point."

***

In the week following Buck’s decision to meet with his sister, a fragile truce settled over their house. The meeting was scheduled, a neutral coffee shop chosen as the site for their tense family reunion. Buck was coiled tight, the Operator mask firmly in place, but he wasn't shutting Eddie out. He was processing, and Eddie was his ever-present, silent support. Life went on, but the upcoming confrontation was a low-level hum of anxiety beneath the surface of their domestic peace.

It was in this tense, uncertain atmosphere that they made their first, and nearly last, attempt at planning the actual wedding. Eddie figured it would be a good distraction, a way to focus on their future instead of Buck's painful past. A tangible objective to replace the unfixable emotional chaos.

He was wrong. It was a catastrophe of epic proportions.

It began with Eddie’s binder. He’d seen the way Buck’s face would sometimes get a little wistful when he saw pictures of big, happy family gatherings on TV. He knew, intimately, the details of a life that had been short on celebration. Buck had missed out on so much—proms, graduations, birthdays celebrated with more than a grim sense of duty. So Eddie, in his infinite, misguided wisdom, had decided that their wedding needed to be a celebration . Not just of them, but of life itself. A big, vibrant, ridiculously fun party to make up for all the joy Buck had never had.

He’d spent hours researching, falling down a rabbit hole of LA event planning websites. The result was a thick binder, meticulously organized with colored tabs, filled with what he considered to be the pinnacle of modern, cool, LA-style fun.

"Okay," he announced one evening, setting the binder on the kitchen table with a decisive thud. "Operation: I Do. Let's get this done."

Buck, who was reading on the couch, looked up and smiled, that soft, easy smile that always made Eddie’s heart stumble. "I was just thinking the same thing." He came over to the table, but instead of a binder, he was holding a stack of glossy magazines with titles like Modern Bride and Timeless Vows .

Eddie eyed the magazines, with their photos of serene couples in sun-drenched fields, with deep suspicion. "What are those?"

"Recon," Buck said, his expression earnest and serious. He opened one to a page featuring a soaring cathedral ceiling and a bride with a ten-foot train. "I was thinking, you know... something traditional. Meaningful. For you."

Eddie stared at him. This was exactly what he’d feared. Buck, bless his huge, misguided heart, thought that Eddie—the lapsed Catholic, the guy whose first wedding was a shotgun affair in a stuffy courthouse to appease his parents—secretly wanted a big, formal church wedding. He thought Eddie needed a "proper" do-over. It was the most horribly thoughtful, completely wrong assumption Buck could have possibly made.

"A church?" Eddie said, his voice flat.

"Or a historic ballroom," Buck offered, flipping the page to a photo of a crystal chandelier the size of a small car. "Something classic. With a five-course, sit-down dinner. And a string quartet. We could have engraved invitations."

Eddie felt a headache beginning to form behind his eyes. He opened his binder with a snap. "I was thinking of a converted warehouse in the Arts District. Exposed brick, string lights. Very cool. For catering, a fleet of gourmet food trucks. Tacos, sliders, maybe a mobile pizza oven... and a donut wall."

Buck was staring at him as if he’d just started speaking in tongues. "A donut wall? Eddie, what are you talking about? Are we getting married or opening a food court?"

"It's a party, Buck! It's supposed to be fun," Eddie insisted, his voice rising with the passion of a man who had spent three hours comparing the Instagram feeds of different donut wall vendors. "We can get a DJ, an open bar, one of those photo booths with the stupid props. I even found a company that rents out vintage arcade games."

"It's a wedding, Eddie, not a twelve-year-old's birthday party!" Buck shot back, his own frustration mounting. "It's supposed to be a sacred commitment, something respectful! Not a rave in a warehouse!"

"Who's going to respect it, Buck?" Eddie snapped, the bitterness he'd been suppressing finally bubbling to the surface. "My parents? That's two invitations we'll be saving right there." He immediately regretted the words, the raw anger in them.

Buck’s face softened. "Eddie..."

"Forget it," Eddie said, shaking his head and flipping to another tab, determined to regain control of the situation. "Let's talk about the guest list. That, at least, should be simple."

"Okay," Buck said, relieved at the change of subject.

"Tier One is essential personnel only," Eddie began, tapping a neat, bulleted list. "Christopher, Pepa, Abuela, Shannon, and Carla. The core unit."

"Agreed," Buck said.

"Tier Two," Eddie continued, "is Allied Forces. My guys from Afghanistan, Sal and Anya. They're non-negotiable."

"Of course," Buck said immediately. "And my guys from the Teams. Hondo, too. They're my family."

"Fine," Eddie conceded. The military personnel were a given. They spoke the same language. "That's it. A small, tight group. Manageable."

"And Athena," Buck added.

Eddie froze. "Athena?"

"Yeah, of course, Athena," Buck said, looking at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "She was the first person in this city to see me for who I actually am, not just some probie. She's my friend, Eddie. She's really important to me."

"She's... intimidating," Eddie said, the words coming out before he could stop them. "She looks at you like she's already solved your murder and is just waiting for you to confess. And if Athena comes, she'll bring Bobby."

"Okay...?" Buck said, his brow furrowed.

"I don't want my Captain at my wedding, Buck!" Eddie said, finally letting his own frustration boil over. "I don't want him watching me say my vows and then thinking about it during my next performance review. It's weird. It's unprofessional."

"It's not unprofessional, it's our wedding !" Buck argued, his voice rising. "They're our friends!"

"Bobby’s my boss! And after everything with the 118, the way they treated you, you really want them all there?"

"I don't want the whole team there, I want Athena! " Buck shot back. "And yes, she’ll bring Bobby because he’s her husband, and that's what people do!"

They were both on their feet now, glaring at each other over the table, the binder and the magazines a forgotten battlefield between them.

"For two people who supposedly know everything about each other," Eddie said, his voice dangerously low, "we seem to have some pretty significant intelligence gaps."

"Yeah, no kidding," Buck retorted. "I thought I was marrying a grown man, not someone who wants to throw a rave for his wedding!"

"And I thought I was marrying a Navy SEAL, not some guy who wants to get married in a stuffy church and listen to violins!"

Just as Eddie was about to say something else, something tactical and cruel that he would immediately regret, the sharp, clear sound of the doorbell cut through the tension.

Ding-dong.

They both froze, staring at the door as if it were an alien intruder. They had been so caught up in their argument they hadn't even heard the car pull up. Eddie scrubbed a hand over his face, took a deep, steadying breath, and went to open the door.

It was Shannon. She had a Tupperware container in her hand and a bright smile on her face that faltered the second she saw Eddie's expression. Her eyes flicked past him to Buck, who was still standing stiffly by the table. She took in the scene—the glossy magazines, the binder of doom, the DEFCON 1 level of tension in the room.

"Bad time?" she asked, her voice cautious.

"No, it's fine," Eddie lied, stepping back to let her in. "Come on in."

"I made extra lasagna," she said, setting the container on the counter. "Figured you guys could use it for lunches this week." She looked between their thunderous faces. "Okay, what's going on? You two look like you're about to declare war on each other."

"He wants to get married in a stuffy church!" Eddie said, throwing his hands up.

"He wants to hire a DJ and have a donut wall!" Buck countered, looking completely bewildered.

Shannon blinked, looking from one to the other. "Wait a minute," she said slowly. "Buck, you hate formal events. You get hives if you have to wear a tie for more than an hour. Why would you want a church wedding?"

"Because I thought he would!" Buck said, gesturing wildly at Eddie. "He's Catholic! I thought he'd want a proper, traditional wedding! Something timeless!"

Shannon turned her gaze to Eddie, one eyebrow raised. "And you," she said, her voice full of disbelief. "You alphabetize your spice rack. You think a donut wall is a good use of resources? You were planning this party for him, weren't you?"

The accusation, so simple and so accurate, hit Eddie like a physical blow. He deflated, all the anger and frustration draining out of him, leaving him feeling foolish.

"I thought you'd want something fun," he mumbled, looking at Buck. "Something to celebrate. You missed out on so much."

Buck’s own angry posture collapsed. "And I thought you wanted a do-over," he confessed, his voice soft. "Something better than what you had... before."

They stared at each other, the full, ridiculous scale of their misguided efforts finally crashing down on them. They knew each other's trauma responses, their coffee orders, the exact sound of their breathing in the middle of the night. And yet, they had both gotten this so spectacularly, comically wrong.

Buck started to laugh first. A real, deep, helpless laugh that was half relief and half pure joy. Eddie felt his own lips twitch, and then he was laughing too.

Shannon just shook her head, a fond, exasperated smile on her face. "You two are a disaster. I'll leave you to it." She patted Eddie on the arm. "Just try not to kill each other before you actually get married."

After she left, they stood in the quiet kitchen, the sound of their laughter slowly dying down.

"I don't want a donut wall," Eddie said, his voice full of relief.

"And I definitely do not want a string quartet," Buck said, closing the distance between them and wrapping his arms around Eddie's waist. "God, we're idiots."

"We are," Eddie agreed, leaning his forehead against Buck's. "So what do we want?"

Buck squeezed him, his eyes shining. "I want to go to City Hall on a Tuesday. And then I want to come home and have a barbecue in our backyard with our real family."

"Just the Tier One personnel," Eddie said, a grin spreading across his face.

"And the Allied Forces," Buck added. "All of them. Even the intimidating ones."

"Deal," Eddie said, a wave of contentment so profound it almost knocked the wind out of him. He closed the binder and pushed it to the far side of the table. They had a plan. Simple. Secure. And finally, perfectly, them.

***

The day Buck met with Maddie, Eddie’s entire nervous system was a live wire. He was on shift, a fact for which he was both grateful and resentful. Grateful because the relentless pace of calls kept his mind from spiraling through a thousand worst-case scenarios. Resentful because he wasn't there. He wasn't at their rally point, waiting. He was miles away, helpless, while Buck walked into a minefield alone.

He checked his phone between every call, a nervous tic he hadn’t had since Buck was deployed. Nothing. The silence was a heavy, suffocating blanket.

When he finally walked through the door of their house that evening, the quiet inside was different. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of a settled home; it was the still, heavy quiet of an emotional aftermath. He found Buck in the living room, sitting on the couch and staring into space, a half-empty mug of what was probably long-cold coffee on the table in front of him.

Eddie’s heart hammered against his ribs. He dropped his duffel bag by the door, his movements slow and deliberate, as if approaching a spooked animal. "Hey," he said softly.

Buck looked up, and the Operator mask was gone. In its place was just... exhaustion. A bone-deep weariness that seemed to settle in the lines around his eyes. But he wasn't broken. He wasn't shattered. He looked... quiet.

"Hey," Buck replied, his voice rough. "How was the shift?"

"Long," Eddie said, walking over and sitting on the coffee table in front of him, mirroring their positions from the night he’d told him. "How was the... meeting?"

Buck let out a long, slow breath. "It was... a lot." He ran a hand through his hair. "She apologized. Cried a lot. Said she was sorry."

"Do you believe her?" Eddie asked, keeping his voice neutral.

"I believe she's sorry now," Buck said, and the distinction was sharp, precise. "She told me everything. About her ex, how he controlled her, isolated her. How she was scared and ashamed and didn't know how to reach out." He shook his head, a small, sad movement. "It's a hell of a story, Eddie. And I feel for her, I really do. But..."

He trailed off, his gaze becoming distant. "The whole time she was talking, I kept waiting to feel something. Anger. Forgiveness. Something. And all I could think was... I don't know you. "

The confession hung in the air between them, full of a quiet, devastating finality.

"The Maddie I knew, the one who raised me... she was eighteen. She was a kid, just like I was. And she's gone," Buck said, his voice thick with a strange kind of grief. "This woman, this stranger sitting across from me... she's not my sister. Not anymore."

He finally looked at Eddie, and his eyes were clear, filled not with the raw agony of an open wound, but with the sad, quiet peace of a scar that had finally, finally faded. "I spent sixteen years mourning a ghost, Eddie. Waiting for her to come back. And today, I realized... she's never coming back. And that's okay."

He took a shaky breath. "Because my family is here. My home is here. With you. With Chris."

The last ghost was gone. The file was closed. The relief that washed over Eddie was so profound it almost made him dizzy. He reached out, his hands cupping Buck's jaw, his thumbs stroking over the tired lines of his face.

"I'm so proud of you," Eddie whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Buck leaned into his touch, his eyes fluttering shut. "I couldn't have done it without my rally point," he murmured.

Eddie closed the remaining distance and kissed him, a slow, gentle kiss that wasn't about passion, but about peace. About coming home.

A few days later, the heavy silence had been replaced by a light, giddy energy. The last piece of external drama had been dealt with, and now, all that was left was them.

"Okay," Buck announced, pulling Eddie toward the door on a bright Saturday morning. "New mission. Operation: Cake."

They ended up at a small, sun-drenched bakery that smelled like heaven. A cheerful woman laid out a platter with six different miniature slices of cake. It was the complete opposite of their first disastrous planning session. This was easy. This was fun.

"First up, classic vanilla bean," the baker said.

Buck picked up a forkful and held it out for Eddie. "Open up, pretty boy."

Eddie took the bite, the sweet, buttery cake melting on his tongue. "It's good," he admitted.

"My turn," he said, picking up his own fork and scooping up a bite of rich, dark chocolate fudge cake. He held it out for Buck, but just as Buck opened his mouth, Eddie playfully dabbed a bit of frosting on the tip of his nose.

Buck's eyes widened in mock outrage before he broke into a grin. He leaned forward, not to take the bite, but to capture Eddie's mouth in a sugary, chocolate-flavored kiss. They were in their own little world, laughing and feeding each other cake, completely oblivious to the amused look on the baker's face.

"Okay, okay," the baker said, trying to get them back on track. "So, do we have a winner? And what name should I put on the order for the happy couple?"

The question sobered them, but the giddy energy remained.

"Buckley-Diaz," Buck said immediately, his arm tightening around Eddie's waist.

Eddie snorted. "Absolutely not."

Buck pulled back, looking wounded. "What? Why not? It's romantic. It's both of us."

"It's a logistical nightmare," Eddie countered, ever the pragmatist. "It's too long. It won't fit on a form. The DMV will have a meltdown. And what about Christopher? He's a Diaz. It'll be confusing for him."

"Or," Buck said, his eyes dancing, "it'll be cool. He gets two awesome last names." He leaned in, his voice dropping. "Come on, Eddie. Don't you want to be a Buckley?"

"About as much as you want to be a Diaz," Eddie shot back, a grin playing on his lips.

They went back and forth, the argument light and full of laughter. But then, Buck's expression turned serious. He took both of Eddie's hands in his, his gaze intense and full of a profound sincerity that made Eddie's breath catch.

"My name... it's the only thing I have left of the kid my sister raised," he said quietly, the words costing him something. "The person I was before all the... noise. I don't want to lose that completely. But Diaz..." He squeezed Eddie's hands. "Diaz is my future. It's Christopher. It's you. It's home. I don't want to choose. I want both. I want us ."

The simple, powerful declaration hit Eddie with the force of a physical blow. The logistical nightmare of a hyphenated name suddenly seemed like the most insignificant, trivial detail in the world. He looked at Buck, at the man who was offering to join their names, to build something new that honored both where they came from and where they were going.

He couldn't find his voice. He just surged forward, pulling Buck into a deep, searing kiss right there in the middle of the bakery, a kiss that tasted of lemon curd and chocolate and the sweet, sweet promise of their future.

When they finally broke apart, the baker was smiling at them, a pen poised over her order form.

"So," she said gently. "One red velvet cake... for the Buckley-Diaz family?"

Eddie looked at Buck, at his future husband, at the love of his life, and a slow, brilliant smile spread across his face.

"Yeah," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "For the Buckley-Diaz family."

***

For all the chaos, conflict, and near-disasters of the planning phase, the wedding day itself arrived with a surprising, almost unnerving, sense of calm. It was a Tuesday in late September, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue.

They stood in a quiet, sunlit waiting room at the Los Angeles County Courthouse, the air smelling of old paper and floor wax. It was nothing like the stuffy, oppressive room in El Paso where he had married Shannon. This was bright. This felt like a beginning.

Eddie adjusted the collar of his simple, dark navy suit. He felt Buck’s hand find his, lacing their fingers together, a solid, warm anchor. He looked at his soon-to-be-husband. Buck was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal grey suit, his hair catching the light from the tall windows. He looked incredible, but it was the look in his eyes that made Eddie’s breath catch. It was a look of pure, unadulterated joy, so open and bright it was almost blinding.

"You okay?" Buck murmured, his thumb stroking the back of Eddie's hand.

"Never better," Eddie said, and it was the truest thing he had ever said.

Their audience was small, their "Tier One" personnel gathered in a tight, supportive semi-circle. Christopher stood beside Buck, looking impossibly grown-up and handsome in his own small suit, holding a velvet box that contained their rings. He was beaming, his pride a palpable force in the room. Pepa was already dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, with Abuela beside her, a serene, knowing smile on her face. Carla stood next to them, her expression warm and full of a quiet satisfaction, and on the other side, Shannon stood, her presence not a ghost of the past, but a solid, supportive pillar of their present. She caught Eddie's eye and gave him a small, genuine smile that said, You did it.

The ceremony was short, officiated by a kind-faced justice of the peace. The vows were simple, heartfelt, and stripped of all the flowery nonsense from the magazines. They were just promises, spoken in a quiet room, witnessed by the only people in the world who mattered.

When it was his turn, Eddie looked directly into Buck's shining blue eyes. "Evan," he began, his voice steadier than he expected. "In the army, they teach you to always have a rally point. A secure position you can fall back to when everything goes to hell. For a long time, I didn't have one. And then I found you. You are my rally point. You are my home. And I promise to be yours. Always."

Buck’s eyes were swimming with tears, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. "Eddie... for a long time, the Teams were my anchor. But when that life was over, I was adrift. I didn't know what my new mission was. And then I found you again. You, and Christopher... you became my new anchor, in this life. This real life. You taught me what a family is. I promise to spend the rest of my life being the man you both deserve."

Christopher stepped forward, his movements careful but confident, and opened the box. He handed Buck the ring for Eddie, his small hand steady. As Buck slid the familiar gold band onto his finger, the weight of it felt different. Heavier. More permanent. Then, Eddie took the other ring, his hand covering Buck's, and slid it into place.

"By the power vested in me by the state of California," the justice said, smiling, "I now pronounce you husbands. You may kiss."

Buck didn't hesitate. He closed the distance between them, his hands coming up to cup Eddie's face, and kissed him. It wasn't a frantic, desperate kiss like so many of their past encounters. It was a kiss of pure, unadulterated joy. A kiss that tasted of promises kept and a future that was finally, finally here. The small room erupted in applause and happy tears, and as he kissed his husband, Eddie felt the last of the old ghosts, the last of the lingering shadows, burn away in the bright, beautiful light of this perfect moment.

Their backyard had been transformed. Simple strings of globe lights were strung between the house and the big oak tree, casting a warm, golden glow over the lawn as dusk settled. The air smelled of grilled meat and freshly cut grass. It was loud, full of laughter and overlapping conversations and the clinking of beer bottles. It was the right kind of noise.

The "Allied Forces" had arrived in full force. Hondo and three of Buck's former SEAL teammates, all huge, intimidating men who looked utterly out of place holding paper plates, were gathered around the grill, laughing at something Buck had said. Athena and Bobby were there, Athena looking regal and beautiful in a simple dress, her arm linked through Bobby's. She caught Eddie’s eye and gave him a nod of pure, unadulterated approval that made him feel ten feet tall.

And then he saw them. Sal and Anya. They were standing by the back door, and the sight of them, so familiar and yet so out of place in his new life, hit him with a wave of nostalgia so powerful it almost knocked him off his feet.

Sal hadn't changed a bit. He was still a mountain of a man, his booming laugh echoing across the yard as he spotted Eddie. "Diaz! You son of a bitch!" he yelled, striding forward and pulling Eddie into a bone-crushing hug that lifted him off the ground. "Look at you! All domesticated. I never thought I'd see the day."

"Good to see you too, Sal," Eddie wheezed, clapping him on the back as Sal finally set him down.

Anya was right behind him, her presence a quiet, steady counterpoint to Sal's boisterous energy. She looked the same, her dark eyes sharp and intelligent, but there was a softness to her that he hadn't seen before. She was holding hands with a woman with kind eyes and a calm, steady presence, who she introduced as Chloe.

"He looks good, doesn't he?" Anya said to Chloe, her gaze on Eddie. It wasn't a question. It was a verdict. She turned back to Eddie, a small, rare smile on her face. "You look happy, Eddie. Really happy."

"I am," he said, and the simple truth of it settled deep in his bones.

"Happy is an understatement," Sal boomed, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "I haven't seen you look this stupid since you were trying not to stare at that pretty SEAL back in Kandahar."

The words hit Eddie like a bucket of ice water. A hot, mortifying flush crept up his neck. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, his voice tight.

"Oh, bullshit," Anya said, her smile widening into a smirk. "You were drooling, Diaz. We all saw it. You followed him around with your eyes like a lost puppy. It was pathetic."

"It was not pathetic," Eddie grumbled, his face now burning. "I was conducting threat assessments."

"Threat to what? Your self-control?" Sal howled with laughter. "Man, you had it bad. Remember that day by the mess tent? You almost walked into a pole because he took his shirt off."

"What's this about a pole?"

Eddie froze. Buck’s voice, full of cheerful curiosity, came from right behind him. He had materialized out of nowhere, a beer in each hand, a ridiculously happy grin on his face. Eddie sent a silent, desperate plea to his friends. Abort. Abort.

Sal, of course, completely ignored the signal. "We were just reminiscing!" he said, slinging an arm around Eddie's shoulders. "About the time this guy here almost knocked himself unconscious staring at some pretty SEAL in Afghanistan. Sound familiar?"

Buck's grin widened. He looked at Eddie’s flaming red face, then back at Sal, his eyes dancing with pure, unadulterated delight. "You know," he said, handing a beer to Eddie. "I think it does. Tell me more."

The evening passed in a warm, happy blur of conversations and introductions. He watched Christopher proudly show Sal his Lego collection. He saw Buck deep in conversation with Anya and Chloe, all three of them laughing. He saw Shannon and Pepa trading stories with Athena. It was a bizarre, beautiful collision of every part of his life, all coexisting peacefully in his backyard.

At one point, he found himself standing alone by the edge of the patio, just watching the scene. The warm glow of the lights, the sound of his family's laughter, the solid weight of the ring on his finger. He thought back to that other wedding, the one in the sterile El Paso courthouse. He remembered the feeling of suffocating duty, the cold dread in his stomach, the sense that he was playing a part in a life that wasn't his own. He had felt so utterly, completely alone.

A pair of strong arms wrapped around his waist from behind, pulling him back against a familiar, solid chest. "You're brooding again, pretty boy," Buck murmured, his voice a low rumble against his ear.

"Just thinking," Eddie said, leaning his head back against Buck's shoulder.

"About what?" Buck asked, his lips brushing against Eddie's temple.

"About how different this is," Eddie admitted, his voice quiet. "From the first time."

Buck’s arms tightened around him. He didn't say anything for a moment, just held him. "This is real," he said finally, his voice a solid, unwavering vow. "We're real."

He turned Eddie in his arms then, his hands cupping his face. "No more ghosts, Eddie," he whispered, his gaze intense. "Just us."

And then he kissed him, a deep, possessive kiss right there in the middle of the party, a kiss that grounded him in the here and now, in the solid, undeniable reality of their love. When he pulled back, the wistful ghosts of the past were gone, replaced by the bright, beautiful certainty of his future. His husband. His family. His home.

He was exactly where he was supposed to be.

***

A few months later, Eddie found himself sitting on a set of hard metal bleachers under the relentless California sun, feeling a sense of pride so vast and profound it felt like it might actually split his ribs open.

The LAPD Academy graduation ceremony was a sea of crisp blue uniforms, polished brass, and beaming families. The air was thick with the sound of a brass band playing a slightly off-key version of a patriotic march, but Eddie didn't hear it. He only had eyes for one person in the perfectly aligned rows of cadets sitting on the field. Evan Buckley-Diaz. His husband.

He scanned the rows until he found him. Buck sat ramrod straight, his expression serious and focused, but Eddie could see the nervous energy thrumming just beneath the surface. He looked incredible in his dress uniform, the dark blue fabric making his shoulders look even broader, his posture radiating a quiet, confident strength. This wasn't the goofy probie from the 118, or the haunted soldier from the VA support group. This was a new version of Buck, one who had finally found a mission that fit every single part of himself.

Their whole family was there, a solid, unwavering block of support in the crowded stands. Christopher sat between him and Shannon, vibrating with excitement, a small, handmade "Go Buck!" sign clutched in his hands. Pepa and Abuela were on Eddie's other side, Pepa already armed with a fistful of tissues. Carla was there, her smile as bright as the sun. Even Athena and Hondo had come, sitting a few rows down, looking for all the world like a pair of proud, intimidating parents.

The speeches were long, a blur of platitudes about honor, courage, and service that Eddie barely registered. He was too busy watching Buck. Watching the way the sun caught the gold in his hair. Watching the small, almost imperceptible smile that touched Buck's lips when Christopher, unable to contain himself, gave a little wave.

Then came the awards. The Commandant of the academy, a stern-looking man with a chest full of ribbons, stepped up to the podium. "And now," he announced, his voice booming over the speakers, "it is my great honor to present the awards for academic and physical excellence. The Honor Graduate of this class, the recruit who has finished at the top of his class in every single metric, is Recruit Evan Buckley-Diaz."

A wave of applause rippled through the crowd. Christopher shot to his feet, yelling, "That's my Buck!" at the top of his lungs. Pepa burst into tears. Shannon was clapping so hard her hands were probably stinging. And Eddie... Eddie just felt it. A quiet, fierce, overwhelming pride that filled his chest and stole his breath.

He watched his husband stand and walk to the stage, his movements fluid and sure. He saw the moment Buck caught his eye from across the field, a small, private smile just for him. And in that look, Eddie saw everything. The charming operator in Afghanistan, the broken soldier in recovery, the determined man who had fought his way back from the brink, and the incredible, loving partner who had rebuilt Eddie's entire world.

After the ceremony ended, the field was a chaotic swirl of blue uniforms and tearful families. Their own group descended from the bleachers and enveloped Buck in a massive, multi-person hug. He was passed from Pepa's tearful congratulations to Christopher's ecstatic high-fives to a firm, proud handshake from Hondo.

"Welcome to SWAT, son," Hondo said, his voice a low rumble of approval.

Athena was next, pulling Buck into a rare, motherly hug. "I always knew you had it in you," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "You make us all proud."

Eddie hung back, just for a moment, letting Buck have his moment with his family, with his mentors. He watched his husband, his face glowing with a happiness so pure it was almost painful to look at, and he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his soul, that this was it. This was their forever.

Finally, through the chaos, Buck's eyes found his. He excused himself from the crowd and made a beeline for Eddie, his gaze locked on him. He didn't say a word when he reached him. He didn't have to.

Eddie reached up, his hands framing Buck's face, and pulled him down for a kiss. It wasn't a chaste, congratulatory peck. It was a deep, searing kiss, right there in the middle of the crowded field, a public declaration of everything he felt. It was a kiss full of pride, of love, of a future that stretched out before them, bright and endless.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against Buck's, his own eyes shining.

"I am so proud of you, Officer Buckley-Diaz," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

Buck's smile was blinding. "Couldn't have done it without my rally point," he said, and then he kissed him again, sealing the promise, the victory, the beginning of the rest of their lives.

***

One year later

The thought that kept circling in Eddie’s head was, This is it.

It wasn't a panicked or anxious thought. It was a quiet, profound, and deeply peaceful realization. He was standing on the back porch of their new house—a slightly bigger place with a sprawling, grassy backyard they’d bought six months ago—and he was watching his family.

The late afternoon sun was warm on his face. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and the faint, sharp scent of model rocket fuel. In the middle of the lawn, Buck and Christopher were on their knees, heads bent together in intense concentration over a sleek, three-foot-tall rocket they had spent the last month building.

Buck, now a full-fledged member of Hondo’s D-Platoon, was in his civvies—a faded SWAT t-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts. He looked relaxed, happy, and so completely at home that it made Eddie’s heart ache in the best possible way. He pointed to a fin on the rocket, and Christopher, now a lanky twelve-year-old, nodded seriously, making a minute adjustment.

So much had changed in a year. Chimney had made Lieutenant, and Eddie had seamlessly transitioned into the paramedic spot on the ambulance alongside Hen. The work was different, a new kind of challenge, but he loved it. He loved the focus, the precision, the knowledge that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He took a sip of his beer, the cold bottle a pleasant weight in his hand. He let his gaze drift around their yard, at the new life they were building. They’d started talking about it a few months ago, quiet conversations late at night after Christopher was asleep. More kids. He had his son, the center of his universe. But Buck... Buck had so much love to give. The idea of another child, of a little brother or sister for Christopher, had taken root in both of their hearts. They were looking into their options, surrogacy or adoption, the conversations full of a quiet, hopeful excitement that felt like a promise.

He was so lost in thought, in the quiet, happy assessment of his life, that he didn't hear them approach.

"Dad's brooding again," Christopher announced, his voice full of mock seriousness.

"He is," Buck agreed, his voice a low, amused rumble. "He gets that look on his face. Like he's calculating the structural integrity of the universe."

Eddie turned, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Just enjoying the view."

Buck moved behind him, his arms wrapping around Eddie’s waist, pulling him back against his solid chest. He was warm from the sun, and he smelled like grass and gunpowder and home. "Good view?" he murmured, his lips brushing against Eddie's ear.

"The best," Eddie said, his voice a little rough.

He leaned his head back against Buck's shoulder, watching as Christopher went back to the rocket, readying it for launch. He felt the solid weight of Buck's arms around him, the steady beat of his heart against his back, the gold band on his own finger a familiar, comforting presence.

The constant battlefield assessments in his head, the endless threat analysis that had been his companion for so long, had finally ceased. The sitrep was static. The war was over.

"You know," Buck whispered, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register that sent a shiver down Eddie's spine, "you get this look on your face when you're thinking really hard. It's so damn sexy." He pressed a soft kiss to the side of Eddie's neck. "Later, I'm going to show you exactly what that look does to me."

Eddie shivered, a jolt of pure, unadulterated want shooting through him. He turned his head, just enough to capture his husband's lips in a slow, deep kiss.

"Countdown!" Christopher yelled from the lawn. "Ten! Nine! Eight..."

Eddie pulled back, a smile playing on his lips. He looked at his son, his bright, beautiful boy, about to send something they’d built together soaring into the sky. He looked at his husband, his partner, his rally point, his home, whose eyes were shining with a love so profound it still sometimes stole his breath.

Life was good.

The final, internal command came through, not with a shout, but with a quiet, permanent sense of peace.

Standing down.