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The world had always looked like a faded photograph to Buck.
Muted greys and washed-out whites, barely distinguishable shades of beige and charcoal that made the sky look the same as the sidewalk. He had learned to navigate the world like this, same as everyone else without a soulmate—by memory, by habit, by heartbeats instead of hues.
He didn’t think about color much anymore. It was easier that way.
Because to think about it too long was to admit that he wanted it. That he wanted them.
And Buck didn’t let himself want anything that deeply anymore.
Except maybe coffee. And he was very late.
He slammed his locker shut and cursed under his breath as he wrestled with the sleeves of his uniform jacket. His shift at the 118 started fifteen minutes ago. Hen was going to kill him. Bobby was going to give him that look, and Chimney was definitely going to make a sarcastic comment about Buck’s relationship with time being purely theoretical.
But it wasn’t his fault this time. Okay—it was his fault, but in a very charming, “slept through my alarm” kind of way.
He sprinted into the engine bay just in time to catch the tail end of Bobby’s voice and the sight of someone new standing beside him. The guy was tall. Broad shoulders. Short, military-cut dark hair. Calm posture. A slight frown tugging at the corner of his mouth like he didn’t quite know how to relax.
“—and this is Eddie Diaz,” Bobby was saying, “our new recruit. Just transferred from the academy. Former Army.”
Buck slowed down as he approached, breath catching, not because he was winded—but because the world around him had shifted.
At first, he thought he was dizzy. Maybe he skipped breakfast. Maybe this was low blood sugar or oxygen deprivation. But then his eyes locked with the stranger’s—and everything changed.
The red of the fire truck behind Eddie was so red it stole the air from Buck’s lungs. Not just bright, but warm, almost alive. The blue stripe on the side of the rig shimmered with depth and hue he didn’t have words for. The yellow helmet Hen was holding suddenly gleamed like sunlight.
And Eddie’s eyes—God, his eyes—they were the richest, most beautiful shade Buck had ever seen. Somewhere between honey and whiskey, with gold sparks where the light hit just right.
It was color. Real color. And it was him.
Buck froze in place, mouth slightly open, staring like an idiot.
Eddie blinked, brow furrowing. “Uh… you okay?”
Buck’s heart thumped wildly in his chest. “Yeah,” he said, though it came out more breath than voice. “Yeah, I just—uh—ran here. I'm late. Sorry.”
Hen narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You good, Buckaroo?”
“Yup. Totally good. Normal. Super normal.” His voice cracked. “Hi. I’m Buck.”
Eddie nodded politely. “Nice to meet you.”
Buck stuck out his hand a little too fast. “Nice to meet you too.”
And then—nothing.
No flash of recognition in Eddie’s face. No wide-eyed wonder. No look of awe like he was seeing something new, something bright.
Because he wasn’t.
Buck’s smile faltered. He let go of Eddie’s hand and dropped it to his side.
Eddie hadn’t seen anything.
“Oh no,” Buck whispered under his breath.
Hen gave him a look. “What?”
Buck shook his head. “Nothing. Just… feeling a little lightheaded.”
Because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. When you met your soulmate, the whole world was supposed to bloom for both of you.
But Eddie Diaz was still looking at him in monochrome. Calm. Polite. Unchanged.
And Evan Buckley had just fallen into color alone.
Buck stumbled through the rest of the introductions like a man trying to walk on a tightrope while everyone watched and nobody realized he was about to fall.
He could see everything now. The crimson glow of the engine’s emergency lights. The stark green of Bobby’s clipboard. The deep mahogany tone in Hen’s skin that he had never noticed before—not because it wasn’t there, but because his eyes hadn’t known how to find it.
The world was beautiful. Radiant. Alive.
And it felt like a cruel joke.
Because the man who caused it—Eddie—looked at him like nothing had happened.
He stood still beside Bobby, arms loose at his sides, his posture so steady it almost dared Buck to shake it. No wonder he’d been in the military—Eddie had the stillness of someone used to war, used to waiting. But not, apparently, used to soulmates.
Not used to Buck.
“So, Diaz,” Chimney said, sliding up beside them with a grin, “you know what they say about being the new guy—first round of coffee’s on you.”
Eddie smirked. “Sure. As long as I get to pick the place.”
“Oh, confident,” Hen said, eyebrows rising.
Buck couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Because Eddie’s smile—that smile—was a goddamn miracle in full color. The way it crinkled his eyes, the flash of his teeth, the tiny twitch of amusement—it was like lightning through Buck’s veins.
“Buck,” Bobby said, snapping him out of it, “can you show Diaz around?”
“Yeah,” Buck said, too fast, too loud. “Yes. I—uh. Yeah. Absolutely.”
He turned to Eddie and immediately forgot how to stand. His limbs didn’t know how to be limbs anymore.
Eddie gave him a small, curious look. “You okay, man? You seem a little… off.”
“I’m good,” Buck lied with a strained smile. “Just didn’t sleep much.”
Not technically a lie. He hadn’t slept enough. But also? His entire universe had just flipped inside out and lit itself on fire. That might be contributing.
They walked together through the station in awkward silence. Buck rattled off the basics—the kitchen, the dorms, the rec area. He caught himself glancing at Eddie’s eyes every few seconds, searching for something, anything. A flicker. A wince. A jolt. But there was nothing.
Eddie just nodded along, thoughtful, asking the occasional question. Calm. Normal. Unshaken.
“So,” Buck finally asked, swallowing hard, “what do you think about all this soulmate stuff?”
Eddie tilted his head slightly. “You mean the color thing?”
“Yeah.”
Eddie shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I mean… it’s a nice idea. Romantic, I guess. But I don’t buy into it.”
Buck’s stomach dropped. “You don’t?”
“Nah,” Eddie said casually. “My parents used to say it was just biology and hormones. Like, people convince themselves it’s fate because they want it to be. But it’s just brain chemistry. That’s what they believed.” He paused. “And honestly? I think they might’ve had a point.”
Buck tried to keep his expression neutral, but it felt like trying to hold back a tsunami with a paper umbrella. “But what if—what if it isn’t just that? What if someone did see color, and the other person didn’t? Doesn’t that mean something?”
Eddie stopped walking. Turned to face him.
And Buck's heart nearly gave out.
“Then I’d say that person’s in for a world of hurt,” Eddie said gently. “Because if it’s not mutual... it’s not a bond. It’s a burden.”
Buck’s throat felt tight. He managed a nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”
They stood there in silence for a beat too long.
And then Eddie smiled again—that smile, damn him—and clapped Buck on the shoulder.
“Thanks for the tour,” he said. “You’re not what I expected.”
Buck blinked. “What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know,” Eddie said with a shrug. “Someone cockier, maybe. But you’re… softer.”
Buck laughed, though it didn’t quite reach his chest. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my whole brand.”
“Secret’s safe with me.”
And with that, Eddie turned and walked toward the kitchen, leaving Buck behind in the hallway of the station, drowning in color, and more alone than he’d ever been.
The shift dragged.
Calls came in—nothing major. A car fire. A kid stuck in a swing. An elderly man with chest pain that turned out to be acid reflux. Normal things. Things Buck had done a thousand times. But today, they felt impossible.
Because how the hell was he supposed to focus when the sky outside the truck windows was blue? Like actual blue. Endless and bright and alive. He couldn’t stop staring at it, not really, not even when he was talking or moving or carrying a hose. It was always there, lurking at the edges of his vision. Reminding him that something fundamental had changed.
That he had changed.
“Dude,” Chimney muttered at one point, elbowing him in the rig. “You’re looking at that street sign like it just proposed to you.”
Buck blinked. “What? No, I’m—I’m just tired.”
“Sure,” Chimney said, not buying it but letting it go. “Maybe get some sleep after we’re back. You’re kinda zoning.”
Eddie was sitting across from him. Buck knew it without looking, but of course he looked anyway.
God, he couldn’t not. Every time his eyes landed on Eddie, the world got a little warmer. Like all the colors were leaning toward him—like light knew something Buck didn’t.
But Eddie’s eyes held nothing but polite curiosity. A soldier’s distance. That same calm like he hadn’t just flipped Buck’s entire world inside out.
Buck forced his gaze out the window, feeling sick.
When they got back to the station, Bobby assigned him and Eddie to kitchen duty. Hen snickered under her breath and whispered something to Chim, who nodded like he knew something. Buck prayed it wasn’t what it actually was.
Eddie rolled up his sleeves and got to work without complaint. He peeled potatoes like he was in basic training, efficient and quiet, methodical in a way that made Buck want to sit down and watch him instead of helping.
Which he did. For a minute too long.
“You gonna help, or…?” Eddie said, not unkind, but definitely amused.
Buck jumped. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”
He grabbed a cutting board and started chopping carrots, letting the silence settle between them.
After a minute, Eddie spoke. “So… what’s your story?”
Buck blinked. “My story?”
“Yeah. You’re kind of a mystery. You act like the class clown, but you’ve got this… I don’t know. Sad puppy energy.”
Buck let out a surprised laugh. “Sad puppy energy?”
Eddie smirked. “Don’t pretend it’s not accurate.”
“I don’t know,” Buck said slowly. “I guess I just… feel a lot. All the time. Sometimes too much.”
Eddie nodded, something in his face softening. “That’s not a bad thing.”
“You ever feel too much?”
Eddie was quiet a moment. Then: “I used to. When I was younger. When I was in the Army, I had to learn to shut a lot of it down. Couldn’t afford to feel everything.”
Buck looked at him then, really looked. “And now?”
“Now I’m trying to figure out how to let it back in. Slowly.”
Something ached in Buck’s chest. “Yeah. I get that.”
They worked in silence for a few more minutes. The soup started to smell good. The radio crackled softly in the background. It could’ve been peaceful.
Except it wasn’t. Not for Buck.
Because every minute he spent near Eddie made the colors more vivid. The orange of the carrots, the green of the parsley, the deep brown of Eddie’s eyes—all of it soaked into him like a secret he couldn’t tell.
And the worst part was? He wanted to tell him. So badly it hurt.
But what was he supposed to say?
Hey, so, fun fact—when I met you this morning, my whole world exploded into Technicolor and now I’m pretty sure you’re the other half of my soul, but you don’t believe in soulmates, and you definitely didn’t see what I saw, so… how’s your soup?
No. No way.
Buck stirred the pot, clenching the ladle too tight.
He was in love with someone who hadn’t felt the shift. Who hadn’t seen the sky change.
And he had no idea what he was supposed to do with that.
Buck couldn’t sleep that night.
The dorms were quiet, filled with the rhythmic breathing of exhausted firefighters. Somewhere, someone snored softly. The occasional creak of an old pipe sounded above the hum of the building, but the station was otherwise still.
Buck stared at the ceiling from his bunk, eyes wide open.
He could see everything now, even in the dark. There were colors in shadows, layers of warm greys and cool blues that hadn’t existed before. The emergency light above the doorway glowed red—not dull red, but a piercing, steady crimson that bled through the room like a heartbeat.
And in the bunk across from his, Eddie slept.
Buck couldn’t help but look. Again.
Eddie had rolled onto his side, one arm tucked beneath his head. His brow was furrowed slightly, like whatever dream he was in wasn’t letting him rest. The blanket had fallen to his waist, revealing the grey undershirt he wore to sleep, the way the fabric clung to his chest and shoulders.
There was a gold thread in Eddie’s hair, Buck noticed now. Not a lot—just a hint. It caught the dim light like it was meant to be seen only by him.
Buck turned onto his back and exhaled through his nose. Quiet. Frustrated.
Because it wasn’t just the color. It was the gravity. The knowing. The second he looked into Eddie’s eyes that first morning, something had clicked into place inside Buck that he hadn’t even realized was missing. Like he’d spent his whole life walking with a limp and only now figured out he had another leg.
But Eddie hadn’t felt it.
And that meant Buck had to carry this truth alone.
He rolled over again, trying to block it out, but the thought echoed like a siren in his skull:
He doesn’t see you.
You’re his, but he’s not yours.
—
The next day didn’t help.
Eddie fit into the team so quickly it was like he’d always been there. He was quiet but sharp, competent without bragging. He asked smart questions, took orders with a nod, and made Chim laugh at dinner by deadpanning a perfect one-liner about Bobby’s strict chili recipe.
And Buck?
Buck was a mess.
He knocked over a tray of tools, forgot to clip his mic into place before their first call, and accidentally called Hen “Chim” mid-sentence. She gave him a look, but didn’t call him on it. Yet.
During lunch, Eddie sat across from him, completely unaware that Buck’s heart was beating like it was trying to escape his chest.
“You always this clumsy?” Eddie asked, biting into a sandwich.
Buck shrugged with an awkward grin. “Only when I’m trying to impress someone.”
Eddie smirked. “Who you trying to impress? The new guy?”
Buck meant to laugh it off. Meant to joke. But the words died in his throat.
Eddie didn’t notice. He just grabbed his drink and turned toward Chim, asking about the next drill schedule like the moment hadn’t meant anything.
Because to him, it hadn’t.
—
Later that evening, Buck escaped to the roof.
It was something he did sometimes when the station felt too small. The sky was clearer up there. Higher. And now, with color, it was nearly unbearable in its beauty.
The stars looked closer. The blue-black of the night sky faded into violet near the edges, and the city lights below shimmered like gold dust.
It was too much.
“I figured I’d find you up here.”
Buck jumped slightly, turning to see Eddie at the top of the ladder.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to disappear.”
Eddie crossed over and sat beside him. “You’ve been weird all day.”
“Yeah,” Buck said softly. “I know.”
“You okay?” Eddie asked.
And there was something in his voice. Not quite concern. Not quite distance either. Just… curiosity. Like he wanted to understand Buck, but wasn’t sure how much of him he wanted to know.
Buck hesitated. Then: “Can I ask you something?”
Eddie nodded. “Shoot.”
“What if you met someone, and the second you did, everything changed for you—but they didn’t feel it?”
Eddie didn’t speak right away. He leaned back on his hands, gazing at the skyline.
“I guess… I’d want to know if the change was real. Or just something I wanted to believe in.”
Buck stared down at his hands. “It was real. It is.”
Eddie glanced sideways at him. “Then maybe it’s just not the right time. People don’t always see things at the same speed.”
That answer should’ve comforted him.
But it didn’t.
Because Buck already knew. Knew it in the marrow of his bones. Knew it in the way the world exploded with light and warmth the second Eddie stepped into it.
He didn’t just believe Eddie was his soulmate. He knew.
He just didn’t know if Eddie would ever feel the same.
And if he didn’t… what then?
Eddie stood after a while, stretching. “You coming back down?”
Buck nodded slowly. “In a minute.”
Eddie looked at him for a beat. Just looked.
Then said quietly, “Don’t stay up too long. It’s cold tonight.”
And left him there under the stars, drowning in a sky he’d waited his whole life to see.
The next few days passed in a blur of too-bright skies and forced smiles.
Buck tried. He really did.
He laughed at Chim’s dumb jokes. He helped Hen test the new equipment without even being asked. He cleaned the rig twice in one shift. He was trying to be normal—to be the guy he’d always been before everything changed.
But it was exhausting, pretending that nothing had shifted, that he didn’t feel like he was walking through the world half on fire and half sinking in concrete.
Because every minute around Eddie made it worse.
It wasn’t even just the way Eddie looked—though that would’ve been enough. The deep, golden warmth of his skin, the soft hazel flecks in his eyes that sparkled in the sunlight, the way he looked in navy with a flash of neon safety vest—every part of him was a new shade Buck had never had the language for.
No, it was worse because Eddie was kind. Quiet and observant, without realizing the damage he was doing just by being himself. He held the door for Buck without thinking. Shared his protein bars during long shifts. Clapped a hand to Buck’s shoulder when they finished a rescue and said, “Nice work, man,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And Buck had to nod, and smile, and pretend his skin didn’t burn where Eddie touched him.
He hadn’t told anyone. Not even Hen, and she usually saw through him like glass. Because how could he explain it?
Hi, I saw the entire world change the moment I met Eddie, but he didn’t feel it, and now I’m living in a kaleidoscope while he still thinks we’re in black and white.
Yeah. No.
—
It all came to a head three nights later.
The call had been rough—a structure fire in East L.A., too many trapped tenants and too few exits. Buck and Eddie had worked side-by-side like they’d done it for years, covering each other without needing to speak. When Buck slipped on wet stairs, Eddie caught his jacket before he hit the ground.
“You good?” Eddie had asked, short of breath, eyes scanning him for injuries.
And Buck had nodded too fast, too desperate, whispering, “Yeah. Thanks.”
Later, back at the station, when the adrenaline wore off and the ash started to sting in their throats, Buck found himself standing in the locker room, staring at his reflection like it might offer answers.
Eddie came in, unzipping his turnout jacket, hair damp from the decon shower.
“Long night,” he muttered.
Buck didn’t respond.
Eddie glanced at him. “You alright?”
And Buck—broke.
“Do you really not feel anything?”
Eddie paused mid-motion, eyes flicking to Buck. “What?”
“I’m just—” Buck’s voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “Every day I wake up now and the world is… brighter. Louder. And you're just walking around like nothing changed. You don’t see it. You don’t feel it. And I don’t know how to pretend that doesn’t hurt.”
Silence.
Eddie stood completely still, watching him. “Buck… what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that when I met you, my world exploded into color.” Buck’s voice was raw. Quiet. “I saw everything for the first time. And you didn’t.”
Eddie’s brows drew together, expression unreadable. “You… saw color? That day?”
“The second I looked at you.”
Eddie sat on the bench slowly, hands clasped together. He didn’t speak for a long time. Buck’s heart hammered in his chest like it was trying to escape before it shattered.
When Eddie finally spoke, it was soft. Careful.
“I didn’t see anything that day, Buck.”
Buck looked away, blinking hard.
“But,” Eddie continued, “I remember you.”
That pulled Buck’s gaze back to him.
“I remember thinking you were too bright. Too much. Like I was staring into something I wasn’t ready for.” Eddie’s voice stayed even, low. “I didn’t see color, but I felt… off. Like the ground shifted a little.”
Buck swallowed. “So what does that mean?”
Eddie leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It means I don’t know. I don’t. I didn’t believe in this soulmate stuff. Still don’t. But you—” he looked at Buck, really looked—“you make me wonder.”
Hope lit in Buck’s chest, flickering against the doubt like a match struck in the dark. “Do you… want to try? To see?”
Eddie hesitated.
Then nodded. “Yeah. I think I do.”
And for the first time since color had burst into Buck’s world, he felt like he could breathe.
Buck didn’t expect things to change overnight.
But he kind of hoped they would.
The next few shifts were… better, in a quiet, tentative way. Eddie hadn’t started seeing in color, not yet, but something in the air between them had shifted. The silence wasn’t so weighted now. Their banter carried a little longer, stretched like soft elastic. And Eddie—Eddie watched him now.
Not in a way Buck could call obvious. Eddie Diaz didn’t do obvious. But there were moments—a lingering glance when Buck laughed too loud, a hand brushing a little too close during drills, the kind of quiet where Eddie looked like he wanted to say something and didn’t.
It wasn’t nothing.
But it wasn’t color, either.
Buck could live with that. For now.
He didn’t bring it up again. He didn’t want to push. But his brain buzzed every time Eddie was near. He was learning color in real time—associating the soft amber of morning light with the way Eddie smiled before coffee, the burnt sienna of rust with the old scar on Eddie’s arm, the deep, steady navy of twilight with the weight of his voice when he said, “You did good, Buck.”
It was torture.
It was beautiful.
And Buck was falling faster than he knew how to stop.
—
A week passed before Buck finally broke again. Not in fire or chaos, but in stillness.
They were on a long overnight shift, and the calls had dried up for the night. The crew had gone quiet, the station dimmed, save for the soft hum of a late movie playing somewhere in the background. Buck found himself in the kitchen, cleaning up dishes that didn’t need cleaning.
Eddie walked in.
Buck didn’t look up. He could feel him in the room like pressure behind his ribs. His voice was calm when he said, “You still don’t see it?”
Eddie’s footsteps slowed.
“No,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”
Buck nodded once. Kept wiping a clean glass with a towel just to give his hands something to do. “It’s okay,” he said, and meant it. “I just—I keep wondering if I’m broken, or if I just got… stuck.”
Eddie didn’t answer right away. Then came the soft scrape of a chair pulled out.
“I think you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met,” Eddie said.
That caught Buck off guard. He turned, frowning. “What?”
Eddie sat down at the table, arms folded loosely in front of him. His face was open in a way Buck rarely saw. “You saw something huge. Something that changed your life. And instead of pretending it didn’t happen, you told me. Even when you knew I wouldn’t understand. That’s not broken. That’s brave.”
Buck swallowed, something twisting in his chest.
Eddie went on. “You could’ve said nothing. But you didn’t. And you gave me the choice. That matters.”
“Still doesn’t make it fair,” Buck said, quieter now. “You don’t owe me anything, Eddie.”
“I know,” Eddie replied. “But I don’t want to walk away from this. From you.”
Buck stared at him. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” Eddie exhaled, “I want to keep trying. I want to know what you see. I want to earn it. Even if I never see it for myself.”
And that—that felt like more than Buck had any right to ask for.
“Okay,” Buck said, breath catching. “Yeah. Okay.”
—
Later that night, as Buck lay in his bunk, he stared at the ceiling again. But this time, he wasn’t alone in the dark.
Eddie’s bunk was only a few feet away. And when Buck glanced over, he saw Eddie facing him—awake, eyes open, watching him quietly.
They didn’t speak. But Buck smiled.
Eddie didn’t smile back.
Instead, he blinked slowly, then whispered:
“Your eyes are blue.”
Buck’s breath caught.
Eddie’s voice came again, soft and stunned:
“They’re really blue.”
And Buck—Buck forgot how to breathe. Because Eddie sat up slowly, like the air had just shifted around him. His gaze flicked around the room. Up to the exit light. Across the walls.
And he whispered, almost like he didn’t trust himself:
“…Is this red?”
Buck bolted upright, heart crashing in his chest.
Eddie looked at him, wonder painting his face in all the shades Buck had seen alone. And for the first time, Buck wasn’t the only one seeing color.
Eddie was glowing with it.