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If you asked Eddie Diaz to describe friendship, he’d probably keep it simple. He’d tell you it’s about steadiness, about loyalty. He’d say it’s not in grand gestures or big speeches, but in showing up—day after day, through the easy parts and the hard ones. Friendship, to him, is someone who doesn’t walk away when things get messy, who stays even when it would be easier not to.
And if you pressed him, if you really wanted the truth, Eddie would pause, glance down, maybe even try to change the subject. But eventually he’d look up, a small smile tugging at his mouth, and say, quietly, “Evan Buckley.”
This was all to say that when he was in El Paso, working on repairing his relationship with Christopher, he did not expect to miss his best friend so much. It didn’t matter how many texts, how many late-night calls, how many times they FaceTimed until the screen dimmed—he missed Buck.
And what Eddie Diaz truly had not expected was to start kissing guys who reminded him of Buck at every chance he got. This from a man who married the first girl he ever slept with. He was not the type who went out looking to hook up with strangers, but life had gotten quiet. He was driving Ubers for cash. The bars were loud and warm and distracting. And suddenly, distraction started to look like a pair of blue eyes, or a crooked smile, or a laugh that tilted just a little too much like Buck’s.
It wasn’t supposed to be kissing. Not at first. He just wanted conversation. A drink, some noise, a break from the stillness of home. Eddie Diaz wasn’t gay. At least, he didn’t think he was. If he was gay, then why hadn’t he kissed Buck? Why was it easier with strangers in the dark than with the one person who haunted his daylight?
But the truth remained: in El Paso, he mostly put his relationship with his son back together. And he kissed five different men. And—if he’s being honest with himself—he liked it. (He thinks.)
Now he’s back in L.A. Back in his little two-bedroom on South Bedford Street. Back with Christopher. And back with Buck. Because while Buck had every intention of finding his own place, he just… hadn’t. Yet.
And it should be fine. Totally fine. Except Eddie had spent months testing out his own confusion against the mouths of strangers, and now he couldn’t stop staring at Buck’s lips. Buck’s full, pink, unfairly inviting lips. God, he wanted to kiss him.
But Buck was his best friend. And kissing your best friend? That crossed a line Eddie wasn’t sure he could uncross.
Of course he hadn’t kissed Buck. Because Buck thought he was straight.
Hell, Eddie had thought he was straight. He’d built a whole life on that foundation: a wife, a kid, the house with the picket fence—even if the fence was falling apart, even if the wife wasn’t right for him, even if the house felt emptier than it should. Straight was safe. Straight was easy. Straight didn’t raise questions.
So no, he hadn’t kissed Buck. Because Buck wasn’t waiting for it. Because Buck didn’t know Eddie wanted it. Because Buck thought Eddie Diaz was straight, and Eddie wasn’t sure he knew how to prove otherwise without unraveling everything.
And that was the real problem: Buck’s lips were right there, in his kitchen, in his living room, in his goddamn bed most nights because the couch was bad for Buck's back. They were right there, pink and plump and soft, and Eddie couldn’t take them—because once he did, Buck would know. And once Buck knew, there was no going back.
It started with Buck knocking on his bedroom door like he owned the place, like it wasn’t insane that half his closet was already spilling into Eddie’s.
“Hey,” Buck said, breezy, holding up two shirts—one blue, one black. “Which one do you think works better for a date?”
A date.
The word sliced through Eddie before he even had a chance to breathe. He looked at the shirts, but all he could see was the way Buck’s eyes lit up when he said it. A date. With someone else. Not him. Not ever him.
Eddie cleared his throat. “Uh. I don’t know. The blue one?” His voice came out too sharp, so he tried again. “Blue. It, uh—it looks good on you.”
Eddie turned away fast, focusing on the wall, on anything but the stretch of Buck’s shoulders and the pale strip of skin as he tugged fabric over his head. Jesus Christ.
He had no right to feel this way. No right to want to say don’t go. No right to let jealousy curl hot and bitter in his stomach. Buck was his best friend. Buck trusted him. And if Buck wanted to go on a date with someone else—if Buck wanted advice on what to wear—then Eddie was supposed to smile, nod, and say go knock yourself out, man.
Instead, he clenched his fists in his lap and tried not to imagine tearing that blue shirt off Buck himself.
He was not jealous. He was fine. This was fine. Buck was his best friend. Best friends asked for date advice. Best friends absolutely did not fantasize about locking their best friend in the house so no one else could see how good he looked in blue.
Buck was humming as he buttoned up the blue shirt, all easy grace, while Eddie sat on the edge of his bed pretending not to stare.
And of course—of course—his brain chose that exact moment to remind him of his first kiss with a man.
He hadn’t planned it. (Which was becoming a theme in his life, apparently—unplanned, unintentional, and yet permanent.) It had been in El Paso, during those long months of trying to fix things with Christopher, trying to fix himself. He was driving Ubers, killing time, finding excuses to sit in noisy bars so he didn’t have to sit in a quiet house.
The guy’s name was Carlos. He’d had dark hair, quick smile, the kind of laugh that was a little too easy. Eddie remembered thinking—God help him—that the laugh sounded like Buck’s. That was the first mistake.
They’d been talking over a couple of beers. Nothing serious, nothing wild. Just… company. Eddie had been lonely, starved for connection, for someone to look at him like he was still a man and not just a single dad fumbling through. Carlos had leaned in, grin curling, and Eddie had thought: why not?
Then it happened.
It was too much. Too much tongue, too much pressure, too much everything. Eddie hadn’t known what to do with his hands—still doesn’t, when he thinks back on it—so he’d put them on Carlos’ shoulders, then his back, then panicked and dropped one straight onto the guy’s thigh. Way too forward, way too fast.
Carlos had been enthusiastic, though. Really enthusiastic. Hands in Eddie’s hair, on his jaw, at one point practically cupping his entire face like Eddie was some kind of long-lost lover instead of a nervous wreck on his first man-kiss. Eddie remembered thinking: is this normal? Is this what it’s supposed to be like? Because if it was—he wasn’t sure he was cut out for it.
He’d pulled back too fast, mumbling something about needing air, about needing to get home. Carlos had looked at him like he’d broken some secret rule. Eddie left anyway, pulse hammering, guilt and exhilaration chasing each other all the way back to his mother’s house.
And now? Now Buck was standing in his bedroom, smoothing down that damn blue shirt, looking so good it made Eddie’s teeth ache.
And all Eddie could think was: Buck would kiss better. Buck wouldn’t be too much, or too sloppy, or too eager. Buck would know exactly how to press in, slow and sure, the way Eddie had always wanted but never had.
Except Buck thought Eddie was straight. And Buck was going on a date. With someone else.
“Yeah?” Buck asked, spinning half a turn like Eddie was his personal fashion consultant. “You think she’ll like it?”
Eddie swallowed hard, wishing he could shut his brain up. Wishing he could forget the taste of Carlos and the clumsy mess of it all. Wishing, most of all, that he could lean across the space and find out if kissing Buck was every bit as good as he imagined.
Instead, he forced a nod. “Yeah. She’ll like it.”
Buck beamed. Eddie died a little more inside.
The kitchen at the firehouse smelled like garlic and onions, Buck moving around the stove like he owned it, like the whole place was his stage. Eddie was supposed to be chopping vegetables. He was definitely supposed to be chopping vegetables. Instead, he kept finding reasons—ridiculous, transparent reasons—to brush against Buck. Reaching for the salt when Buck already had it. Setting the knife down just a little too close so their hands bumped. Standing behind him at the sink like the counter wasn’t literally four feet wide.
What was wrong with him? Seriously. What. Was. Wrong. With. Him.
Buck didn’t even notice. Of course he didn’t. He was too busy telling Ravi, Hen, and Chim how great his date had gone last night.
“Her name’s Claire,” Buck said, stirring sauce with the kind of enthusiasm Eddie usually reserved for telling war stories. “She’s studying for her PhD—marine biology. We talked for hours.”
Hen leaned her chin on her hand, smiling. “Aw, that’s cute.”
“Cute?” Chim echoed. “This man just survived three hours of small talk and calls it a success. That’s not cute. That’s Stockholm syndrome.”
Ravi, ever the optimist, piped up. “But if you talked for hours, that’s a good sign, right?”
Eddie stabbed at a carrot with the knife like it had personally wronged him. Good sign. Great. Fantastic. Claire, with her PhD and her marine biology, probably loved the color blue too. Probably loved Buck’s dumb stories and his too-bright smile. Probably loved him.
Buck laughed, warm and pleased. “Yeah, it was nice. We’re going out again Friday.”
Eddie’s hand slipped. The carrot rolled off the cutting board. He cursed under his breath and bent to grab it, mostly so no one would see his face. His completely neutral, not-at-all-jealous face.
Neutral, his ass. He was in hell. Actual hell. Dante had written nothing about watching your best friend glow while bragging about a date with someone who wasn’t you. Dante had no idea.
And the worst part? Buck’s arm brushed his as he leaned over for a spoon, casual, thoughtless, sending heat zipping up Eddie’s skin. He froze, knife still in hand, thinking: don’t do it. Don’t lean in. Don’t let them see you’re losing your mind over your best friend’s bicep.
He forced himself to breathe. Forced himself to dice another carrot like his entire world wasn’t tilting off its axis.
Buck grinned, oblivious. “She wants to check out that little jazz bar downtown next time.”
Hen’s smile widened. Chim made a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan. Ravi looked like he was writing vows for their wedding already.
And Eddie—Eddie diced that carrot so hard it might as well have been Claire’s PhD thesis.
The tones dropped, mercifully cutting Buck off mid-sentence about jazz bars and PhDs. Eddie had never been so grateful for a call in his life.
They rolled out, sirens wailing, the whole team focused. Eddie tried to force his head back into work mode. Tried. But then they pulled up to the scene—a bar, neon lights flickering, crowd spilling onto the sidewalk—and his stomach flipped.
Bars. El Paso. Kiss number two.
Yikes.
It hadn’t been the disaster that Carlos was. No, this one had been… different. Still awkward, sure, but not terrible. He’d met the guy—Diego? Daniel?—at a crowded spot downtown. He had curls that fell over his forehead, blue eyes that caught the light, tall enough Eddie had to tilt his chin just slightly.
And if Eddie was being honest—and God, he hated himself for it—the guy had reminded him of Buck. That was why Eddie noticed him in the first place. That was why Eddie let himself get drawn in, let himself laugh too loud, let himself lean too close.
The kiss had happened outside, against the cool brick wall, smoke curling from someone’s cigarette nearby. It wasn’t sloppy. It wasn’t a tongue war. It was… nice. A little too nice. Soft, warm, easy in a way Eddie hadn’t expected. And the whole time, all he could think was: this feels like practice. This feels like I’m rehearsing for someone else.
And that someone else had Buck’s curls, Buck’s blue eyes, Buck’s stupid height.
Now, standing in front of another bar in Los Angeles, Buck at his side barking orders, Eddie’s chest constricted. His body moved automatically—gear on, gloves on, checking the scene. But his brain? His brain was twenty states away, remembering how it had felt to press his mouth to a stranger’s and pretend it was his best friend.
He wanted to shake it off. Wanted to stop comparing. Wanted to stop wanting.
But then Buck brushed past him, all determination and focus, and Eddie thought: practice isn’t good enough anymore. I want the real thing.
Yikes. Yikes. Yikes.
The call was chaos—bars usually were. Too many bodies, too much alcohol, too much noise. Hen and Chim were triaging two guys who’d gotten into a fistfight, Ravi was dealing with a sprained ankle from someone who’d slipped on spilled beer, and Buck and Eddie were cutting through the crowd to check on a woman who’d collapsed near the jukebox.
“Coming through!” Buck shouted, firm but friendly, his hand at Eddie’s back guiding him through. Eddie tried very, very hard not to notice that.
They reached the woman—mid-thirties, pale, barely conscious. Eddie knelt, checking her pulse, while Buck crouched opposite him with the oxygen tank.
“She’s tachy,” Eddie muttered, pressing two fingers to her wrist.
“Got it,” Buck said, already sliding the mask over her face. He glanced up, meeting Eddie’s eyes briefly, blue steady even in the pulsing neon. Eddie’s heart did a traitorous lurch.
Bars. Blue eyes. Curls. Kiss number two. Practice for Buck.
Fucking focus, Eddie.
They stabilized her enough to load her onto the gurney, Hen swooping in to take over. Eddie exhaled, stood, rolled his shoulders. He should’ve felt better. He usually did, after they got someone out safe. But Buck was still there, crouched on the sticky floor, grinning like this was just another Tuesday night.
And Eddie—Eddie lost his goddamn mind for a second.
“You know, bars are dangerous,” he said, too sharp, too fast. “Lot of stuff can go wrong. Maybe you shouldn’t go on your date.”
The words hung there, ridiculous, neon-lit and stupid. Buck blinked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Eddie said quickly, ears burning. “Just—look around, man. Fights, accidents, people passing out. It’s not exactly safe.”
Buck’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a laugh. “Eddie. I’m going for drinks, not a bar brawl.”
Eddie scowled, grabbing the med bag like it had offended him. “I’m just saying. You should be careful.”
“Noted,” Buck said, still grinning, still annoyingly unbothered. He stood, brushed beer off his knees, and clapped Eddie’s shoulder like they were teammates and not like Eddie hadn’t just humiliated himself in the middle of a call.
Hen gave Eddie a look on her way past—one of those long, knowing ones that said she’d clocked the whole exchange. Chim smirked. Ravi was too busy with the sprained ankle to notice, thank God.
But Eddie noticed. Eddie noticed everything.
Buck’s grin. Buck’s hand on his shoulder. Buck’s promise to go on that damn date anyway.
And Eddie thought, not for the first time: I’m in hell.
Back at the truck, Eddie busied himself with the gear—wiping down the monitor leads, repacking the med bag, anything to look normal. Totally normal. Definitely not a guy who’d just tried to sabotage his best friend’s love life in the middle of a bar call.
Hen slid in beside him, dropping a pair of used gloves into the biohazard bin. “You know,” she said casually, “not everyone thinks bars are dangerous.”
Eddie froze. “What?”
She smiled sweetly. Too sweet. “Some people actually enjoy them. Drinks, music, dancing. It’s called fun, Diaz.”
“I didn’t say—” He cut himself off, jaw tight.
Chim poked his head around the rig door, smirk already in place. “Yeah, man. If bars were really that bad, half of L.A. would be in traction. Pretty sure you’ll survive Buck’s social calendar.”
Buck, oblivious, was at the other side of the rig helping Ravi fold blankets, humming like he hadn’t just been the center of Eddie’s meltdown.
Eddie gritted his teeth, shoving the med bag back into its slot a little harder than necessary. “I was just making an observation.”
Hen raised an eyebrow, all innocence. “Mmhmm. Very passionate observation.”
Chim snorted, turning back to his clipboard. “Gonna start a PSA campaign? Bars Are Bad: A Public Service Announcement by Eddie Diaz.”
Eddie shot him a glare that could’ve melted steel. Chim just grinned wider.
The rig doors shut with a clang, Buck’s voice carrying over the sound as he laughed at something Ravi said. And Eddie sat there, trapped between his coworkers’ smirks and his best friend’s oblivious glow, thinking: they know. They don’t know what they know, but they know.
And that was somehow worse.
Back at the station, things settled into the usual post-call rhythm. Buck was still buzzing, telling Hen and Chim some ridiculous story about the drunk guy who tried to high-five him mid-triage. Ravi laughed too hard. Hen rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.
Eddie sat at the table, turning a coffee mug slowly in his hands, staring at nothing. Or—staring at Buck’s mouth moving, which was practically the same thing.
And of course his brain, his traitorous, backstabbing brain, decided this was the moment to remember Kiss Number Three.
That one had been different. Not sloppy like Carlos. Not Buck-adjacent like Diego-or-Daniel. No, this guy—Marco—had been the opposite of Buck. Dark, broody, quiet. Sharp jaw, narrow shoulders, hair cropped close. The kind of guy who leaned in slow, steady, careful, like he was asking permission with every inch.
And Eddie had told himself, see? This isn’t about Buck. If it was about Buck, why would I kiss someone who looks nothing like him?
Except then Marco kissed him, and it was fine—good, even—but all Eddie could think the whole time was: not Buck. Not Buck. Not Buck.
He swore it hadn’t been on purpose. He swore he hadn’t picked the anti-Buck just to prove something to himself. But sitting there now, watching Buck laugh so hard he bent at the waist, curls flopping into his eyes, Eddie had to admit it: maybe he had.
Because kissing Marco had been like drinking lukewarm water. Technically quenched the thirst, but it didn’t hit. It didn’t spark. It didn’t matter.
Buck, on the other hand, could say the word spatula and Eddie’s pulse would trip over itself.
Eddie sighed into his coffee, long and miserable.
Hen glanced over, arching an eyebrow. “You good, Eddie?”
He forced a nod, swallowing hard. “Fine.”
Totally fine. Just thinking about the fact that every kiss he’d had in El Paso was a rehearsal, a deflection, or a denial—and the one person he actually wanted to kiss was standing three feet away, stirring pasta like he was auditioning for a cooking show.
Totally. Fine.
By the time Buck served dinner—pasta, of course, because Buck had one speed in the kitchen—Eddie’s head was a mess. Ravi was asking for seconds, Hen was complimenting the sauce, Chim was doing a bit about “Chef Buck,” and Buck was glowing under the attention, grinning like the human sun.
Eddie stabbed his fork into a noodle and thought: I have to get out of here.
Not literally. He couldn’t walk out in the middle of dinner without raising suspicion. But mentally? Emotionally? He needed a break from Buck’s smile and Buck’s voice and Buck’s stupid perfect pink lips.
So he did what any sane person would do in this situation.
He downloaded a dating app.
He told himself it was research. Distraction. Something to keep his brain from looping the same terrible thought—I want to kiss my best friend—on repeat. He set up the barest of profiles (no bio, blurry picture, half-assed details), and then, when it prompted him for preferences, his thumb hovered.
Men.
He clicked it before he could think too hard. Men.
Suddenly his screen was filled with stubbled jaws, broad shoulders, curls, tattoos, shy smiles, wide grins. He swiped, quick, thoughtless, hungry in a way he didn’t want to examine.
And then it hit him.
Maybe Eddie Diaz was gay.
Maybe he’d been lying to himself since Lety’s quinceañera. Maybe those five El Paso kisses hadn’t been experiments so much as… evidence. Maybe his obsession with Buck’s lips wasn’t just best-friend-overthinking—it was the truth he’d been dodging for years.
He locked the screen and shoved his phone deep in his pocket, pulse racing.
So what if Eddie Diaz was gay? What was that to anyone? He was a firefighter. A dad. A good one. He’d been to war, for God’s sake. He could survive this. He could.
Across the table, Buck leaned back in his chair, licking sauce off his thumb, laughing at something Chim said.
Eddie gripped his fork like it was a lifeline, and thought: I’m so screwed.
He was halfway to convincing himself it didn’t matter—just mindless swiping, nothing real—when a familiar voice cut through the noise.
“Glad to see you all still eating like you’re training for the Olympics.”
Bobby.
He wasn’t captain anymore—retired a few months back, finally listening to Athena and his own tired bones—but he still came around. Stopped in for coffee, checked on the crew, offered unsolicited advice about pasta sauce ratios. The place felt better with him in it, steadier.
Eddie looked up, guilt flashing through him like a beacon. Did Bobby know? Could he see the fact that Eddie had a dating app hidden in his pocket and a head full of Buck’s lips?
Bobby smiled, dropping a hand on Buck’s shoulder as he passed, clapping Chim on the back. Just Bobby, the same as always.
Bobby caught his eye across the table, one brow raised in that calm, steady way. The kind of look that said: Whatever storm you’re brewing, Eddie, don’t let it sink you.
Eddie tore his gaze away, cheeks hot, fork stabbing too hard at his pasta.
Totally fine. Eddie was totally and completely fine, actually.
The house was quiet after their forty-eight, the kind of quiet Eddie usually loved. Chris was at school, the laundry was humming in the background, and the two of them sat at the kitchen table with steaming mugs of coffee.
Eddie was half-asleep, hair still damp from the shower, hands curled around his mug like it was life support. Buck looked maddeningly awake, grinning at something stupid on his phone.
And then it happened.
Ping.
Eddie’s phone lit up on the table. A notification banner slid across the screen, bright and damning: You have a new match!
His soul left his body.
Before he could snatch it up, Buck leaned over, eagle-eyed. “Wait—wait, was that a dating app?” His voice shot up into that delighted register Eddie couldn’t fight if he tried. “Eddie Diaz, you’re on a dating app?”
Eddie wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. “It’s… nothing. Just—”
Buck was already grinning like Christmas morning. “That’s awesome, man! Oh my God, who are they? Do you like them? Do you wanna show me?”
“No,” Eddie said, too fast, gripping his phone like it might self-destruct.
Buck, completely unfazed, kept going. “This is so great. You and me, out there in the world, huh? We could do double dates!”
Double dates. Double. Dates.
Eddie choked on his coffee. “What?”
“Yeah!” Buck leaned back, already plotting. “You meet someone, I keep seeing Claire… we could go bowling, or trivia night, or that little sushi place Ravi likes. You know, couple stuff—well, not couple couple, but—you know what I mean.”
Eddie stared at him, every neuron in his brain misfiring. Couple stuff. Not couple couple. Double dates. This was hell. No, worse. This was cosmic punishment for every bad thing he’d ever done.
He managed a strangled, “Yeah. Maybe,” and shoved his phone face-down on the table.
Buck beamed at him like he’d just solved world hunger. Eddie sipped his coffee, heart pounding, and thought: I am absolutely, without a doubt, in love with this idiot. And I might actually die before he figures it out.
Buck was still rambling about trivia nights and sushi when Eddie’s brain decided, cruelly, to throw him back to El Paso. Kiss #4.
That one had been different. He’d gone home with the guy.
Name… Miguel? Michael? Something with an M. He’d been older than the others, mid-thirties maybe, confident in a way that made Eddie feel both safe and wildly out of his depth. They’d met at a bar, sure—because where else did Eddie seem to find these disasters—but the kiss hadn’t stayed at the bar.
It had followed him home.
And that was the thing. Eddie remembered fumbling for his keys, remembered laughing too loudly at something Miguel said, remembered the hot press of a mouth against his as they stumbled through the doorway. This wasn’t practice. This wasn’t curiosity. This was Eddie choosing, opening the door, leading someone into his space.
The kiss had deepened against his couch, Miguel’s hands warm on his jaw, steady, sure. Eddie had let himself sink into it—into the weight, into the heat, into the terrifying realization that he liked it. Liked the scratch of stubble, the strength in someone’s hands, the low sound Miguel made when Eddie kissed back harder.
They didn’t go all the way. Eddie had pulled back before it got that far, nerves spiking, guilt like a chokehold. Christopher had been asleep down the hall. Eddie had panicked, mumbled an excuse, and Miguel—mercifully—had been kind about it, kissed him one last time before leaving.
But Eddie had stood in his quiet living room after, lips swollen, heart pounding, and thought: I can’t pretend this isn’t real anymore.
Now, sitting at his kitchen table in Los Angeles, Buck across from him beaming about double dates, Eddie pressed his palms to his coffee mug like it might ground him. His lips tingled with the memory, with the truth he’d been running from since El Paso.
He wasn’t just curious. He wasn’t just experimenting. He wanted men. He wanted—God help him—this man.
Buck caught his eye, still smiling, and Eddie nearly dropped his coffee.
Totally fine. Totally normal. Definitely not remembering the way Miguel’s hands had felt while wishing, desperately, that it had been Buck instead.
By Friday morning, Eddie was unraveling.
Exhibit A: they were still sharing a bed. Because, apparently, in this house “Buck’s looking for his own place” translated to “Buck will spread his octopus limbs across Eddie’s mattress indefinitely.” Eddie hadn’t objected, of course—what was he supposed to say? No, you can’t keep spooning me like we’re married because I might actually combust?
Exhibit B: Buck had, in fact, been spooning him all night. Arm draped heavy around Eddie’s waist, chest pressed flush against his back, breath warm against his neck. Eddie had spent the night lying perfectly still, every nerve ending screaming, while Buck just… slept. Peacefully. Like this was normal. Like Eddie wasn’t counting the beats of his heart against the press of Buck’s ribs.
And now—God help him—Exhibit C: the sun. The treacherous, golden Los Angeles morning sun, streaming through the blinds and falling just so across Buck’s face. Lighting him up like a painting. Blue eyes closed, lips parted, curls mussed from sleep. He looked unfairly perfect. Stupidly perfect. So perfect Eddie thought he might actually melt into the mattress.
He didn’t mean to stare. He really didn’t. But how could he not? Buck was right there, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss—
Buck’s eyes blinked open.
And Eddie froze.
For one horrifying, suspended second, Buck looked right at him. Bleary, soft, still waking up—then sharper, like he noticed. Like he knew Eddie had been staring.
“Morning,” Buck rasped, voice rough with sleep. His lips curled in the faintest, laziest smile.
Eddie’s brain: sprint out of the house and never return.
Eddie’s body: rooted to the spot like a criminal caught red-handed.
“Morning,” he croaked, too fast, too guilty, like he’d been doing something more than just looking.
Buck’s smile lingered, slow and knowing, before he rolled onto his back with a groan, arms stretching above his head.
Eddie buried his face in his pillow, heart pounding, thinking: he noticed. He noticed. Oh God, what if he noticed everything?
Buck, of course, acted like nothing had happened. Like Eddie hadn’t been caught staring at him in the golden glow of dawn. Like he hadn’t smiled all soft and sleepy, like he knew.
Instead, he slipped right back into Buck Mode: making scrambled eggs for Chris, finding his sneakers when they’d mysteriously migrated under the couch, humming as he packed his lunch. Eddie, still trying to shake off the memory of Buck’s arm heavy around his waist, mostly stood there like a malfunctioning appliance.
And of course—of course—Buck was the one to drive Chris to school. He always did little things like that, swooping in with that big-brother energy that made Chris light up. Eddie watched them go, Chris’s laughter trailing behind, and felt his chest ache with something he couldn’t name out loud.
By the time Buck came back, Eddie was at the table pretending to read the news on his phone, his coffee mug empty.
“Hey,” Buck said, sliding into the kitchen like he belonged there (because he did, didn’t he?). He held up two to-go cups, smug as anything. “Brought you your usual.”
Eddie blinked. The cup was from that place—the pretentious little café on the corner that Hen always teased him about, the one where the baristas had mustaches and poured foam art like it was a competition. The one Eddie swore he didn’t love but secretly thought about at 3 a.m.
“You—” Eddie cleared his throat. “You went all the way to Harlow’s?”
Buck grinned, setting the cup in front of him. “Well, yeah. You like it. And they know your order by now, which is kind of embarrassing, by the way.”
Eddie stared at the lid, heart doing its stupid, traitorous thing. Buck had dropped Chris at school, detoured across town to the snobby coffee shop, and come home with Eddie’s exact drink without even asking. Like it was muscle memory. Like this was just what they did.
He took a sip, the first hit of rich espresso and oat milk hitting his tongue, and nearly groaned. Buck was watching him, eyes bright, waiting for approval like some overgrown golden retriever.
“It’s good,” Eddie muttered, trying to sound casual. “Thanks.”
Buck’s grin widened. “See? I pay attention.”
And Eddie thought: That’s the problem.
Because Buck did pay attention. All the time. In ways that made Eddie feel seen and cared for and wanted in a way no one else ever had. And if Buck noticed him staring this morning—really noticed—what was Eddie supposed to do then?
He took another sip, staring into the swirl of coffee like it might hold answers, while Buck leaned against the counter and started talking about their shift schedule like the world wasn’t tilted completely off its axis.
Eddie curled his hands around the warm cup, inhaling the sharp espresso steam, trying not to let Buck’s grin burn into the side of his face. And, of course, his brain chose that exact moment to drag him back to Kiss #5.
The last one. The one that had tipped everything over.
It had been late—too late—at a quiet bar on the edge of El Paso. Not the rowdy, neon-soaked kind. This place was low lights and soft music, a bartender who remembered names. Eddie hadn’t meant to stay as long as he did, but then he’d met Gabriel.
Gabriel was calm, steady, older by a few years. Nothing flashy, nothing trying too hard. They’d talked. Really talked. About family, about work, about why Eddie was there. Eddie had found himself saying more than he usually did, letting words spill out like he trusted him.
And then Gabriel had leaned across the table, slow and deliberate, and kissed him.
Not sloppy, not rushed, not practice. Just soft, grounding, good.
Eddie had kissed him back.
And instead of ending there—like all the others had—Gabriel had asked if Eddie wanted to get coffee the next day. Just coffee. Just a date.
And Eddie, God help him, had said yes.
He remembered the small café they’d met at, remembered sitting across from Gabriel with a cup of black coffee cooling in front of him, feeling both guilty and alive. He remembered the way Gabriel had smiled, the way he’d listened, the way Eddie had felt almost comfortable.
It wasn’t fireworks, not exactly. But it was real. It was something. And it had scared the hell out of him. Because it meant he couldn’t pretend anymore. It wasn’t just kissing strangers in bars, wasn’t just experimenting. He wanted this. He wanted men. He wanted connection.
And sitting here now, drinking the exact coffee Buck had gone out of his way to get him, Eddie realized the truth he’d been circling since El Paso.
It wasn’t about guys.
It was about this guy.
Across the table, Buck licked foam off his thumb, completely oblivious, and started talking about maybe taking Chris to the batting cages that weekend.
Eddie took another gulp of coffee, scalding his tongue, and thought: I need to kiss him now. So, he did.
The sun caught Buck just right, streaming through the kitchen window, laying gold across his face. His curls were still mussed from sleep, his smile easy as he talked about batting cages and takeout and whatever else Buck always filled the air with.
And Eddie couldn’t do it anymore.
Couldn’t sit there pretending this was fine, pretending the coffee in his hands wasn’t the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever brought him, pretending Buck’s grin wasn’t the only thing he wanted to see every damn morning for the rest of his life.
So Eddie stood. His chair scraped back, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen. Buck glanced up, mid-sentence, blue eyes bright.
Before he could think, before fear could sink its claws in, Eddie stepped forward. He reached out, took the cup right out of Buck’s hand, and set it firmly on the counter.
“Eddie?” Buck asked, half laughing, confused.
Eddie didn’t answer. He just looked at him. Really looked—at the curve of his mouth, at the freckles across his nose, at the man who had been his steadiness, his chaos, his everything.
Then he curled a hand around the back of Buck’s neck, tugged him close, and kissed him.
Not sloppy. Not practice. Not denial.
Just Buck.
And God, it was everything.
Buck went still for a heartbeat, surprised—but only a heartbeat. Then he kissed back, warm and certain, his hand landing on Eddie’s hip like it had always belonged there. The kitchen tilted, the air thick with the taste of coffee and sunlight and years of unspoken want.
Eddie pressed closer, like he could pour every spiraling thought, every El Paso kiss, every sleepless night into this one moment.
He kissed him.
He kissed Buck.
And for the first time in months—maybe years—Eddie Diaz felt like he could finally breathe.
When Eddie finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, Buck’s eyes were wide, his lips swollen, and that grin—God, that grin—spilled across his face.
“Took you long enough,” Buck whispered, voice low, rough with want.
Eddie’s chest lurched. Something hot and dangerous snapped loose inside him.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Instead, he surged forward again, kissing Buck like a man starved. Like there was no tomorrow. Like every kiss in El Paso had been rehearsal, and this was the real show.
Buck made a noise—half laugh, half moan—that Eddie swallowed down as he pressed him back against the counter. Buck’s hands fisted in Eddie’s shirt, dragging him closer, closer, until there was no space left between them.
And then Buck did what Buck always did—went all in. He hopped onto the counter in one smooth move, legs spreading, wrapping tight around Eddie’s waist.
Eddie groaned, the sound torn from somewhere deep, as Buck locked him in place. His hands slid under Buck’s thighs, gripping hard, holding him like he was the only anchor Eddie had left. Their mouths crashed together again, tongues sliding, teeth nipping, messy and desperate and so, so good.
Buck tasted like coffee and sugar, warm and heady. His lips were soft but insistent, pulling Eddie deeper, dragging him under. Eddie kissed him like a man making up for lost time, mouth hot and open, tongue stroking deep, every movement saying what he couldn’t put into words: I want you. I’ve always wanted you.
Buck arched against him, chest to chest, a whimper breaking free when Eddie’s teeth caught his bottom lip. Eddie soothed it with a slow, filthy sweep of his tongue, then dove back in, kissing harder, deeper, like there was no air left in the world but Buck’s breath.
Hands everywhere—Buck’s sliding up Eddie’s neck, into his hair, tugging, demanding more. Eddie’s gripping Buck’s hips, pulling him forward, grinding him close, their bodies lined up, friction sparking everywhere.
The kitchen blurred out of existence. It was just this—Buck’s legs tight around him, Buck’s mouth open under his, Buck kissing back with the same urgency, the same fire, the same years of wanting finally set loose.
Eddie tore his lips away just long enough to murmur, hoarse and wrecked, “God, you feel so good,” before Buck dragged him back in, kissing him until Eddie thought his knees might give out.
The best kiss of Eddie Diaz’s life, and he knew, with bone-deep certainty, there’d never be another.
Because this wasn’t practice. This wasn’t denial.
This was Buck.