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Eddie watched the crates being loaded into the trunk of his truck with the kind of expression a man wears when he’s sure the universe is playing a joke on him.
What the hell had just happened?
He’d only come to the liquor store to grab a bottle of wine —something nice for Karen’s birthday, maybe one of those labels she liked that sounded French enough to impress but wouldn’t require him to sell a kidney. He’d walked in, made his pick, paid, and was about to head out when the world exploded.
Literally.
A deafening pop burst behind the counter, and suddenly there were balloons, streamers, and confetti raining down on him like divine punishment for running errands. A couple of cashiers screamed in delight, someone started cheering, and before he could even process it, a booming voice declared, “Congratulations to our thousandth customer!”
Then came the clapping.
Strangers —actual strangers— were patting him on the back like he’d just won a marathon instead of paying for a bottle of Merlot. A woman in a sparkling vest shoved a bouquet of metallic balloons into his hand, and a man with a camera started taking pictures as if this were a major life event.
And now… Now there were crates. So many crates.
He leaned against the car, watching the employees load yet another box into the trunk, his mind lagging several beats behind reality.
“Uh… Are you sure this is all for me?” he tried, but they were too busy congratulating him and assuring him that yes, Mr. Díaz, this was all part of the Year of Wine Celebration.
Year of wine celebration.
He snorted internally. That sounded like something Buck would’ve invented on a dare.
Apparently, according to the very enthusiastic store manager —a man who’d shaken his hand three separate times— the prize included twenty cases of wine today, and twenty more delivered to his house every three months. For a year.
Eddie blinked. Did the math in his head.
That was… What, nearly a thousand bottles? A thousand bottles of wine.
For buying one.
One fifty-dollar bottle for Karen.
He stared down at the receipt still crumpled in his hand, half-expecting it to start laughing at him.
‘A thousand bottles,’ he thought, stunned. ‘What am I supposed to do with a thousand bottles of wine? Build a fort? Open a restaurant? Flood the kitchen and call it a spa day?’
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, a groan building somewhere behind his teeth. He could already picture Buck’s face when he told him —that slow, infuriating grin, the teasing glint in his eyes.
“Oh, I can definitely help you with that,” Buck would say, no hesitation, because of course he would.
Eddie sighed, shoving the receipt into his pocket as another case landed in the trunk with a dull thud.
He’d only wanted to be a decent friend. Buy a birthday gift. Maybe get home before traffic.
Now he was apparently the proud owner of an accidental winery.
After practically sharing a case per family —Bobby and Athena, Hen and Karen, Chim and Maddie, Tía Pepa, Abuela, even Linda and Josh— Eddie still found himself surrounded by wine. Cases and bottles piled in the corner of the kitchen like a forgotten treasure trove, glimmering in the afternoon light, daring him to do something about them.
He’d tried giving them away to neighbors, even left a few bottles as thank-you gifts at the firehouse, but it was useless. The wine kept multiplying like a divine joke he hadn’t quite earned.
So, one evening, when Karen laughed and said, “A shared bottle a day is a surefire cure for boredom,” he decided —why not?
And that’s how it began.
A glass with dinner. Another after. Then a bottle shared with whoever happened to stop by. The days grew warmer, the nights softer, and Eddie grew comfortable in the rhythm of it —the quiet pour, the sound of the cork freeing itself like a sigh, the taste of fruit and wood on his tongue.
And that’s also how he ended up on the couch with Buck.
Technically, Buck had shown up to drop off Christopher’s notebook, but Eddie knew better.
For one, it was summer break. And two, Chris was in Canada with Adriana, spending two blissful weeks being spoiled with waffles, maple syrup and lake swims. There was no urgent need to return a school notebook at ten p.m. on a Wednesday.
No, Buck’s reason was an excuse —transparent, obvious, and somehow endearing.
Eddie didn’t mind. He never did. Because it was Buck.
And wanting Buck around was as natural as breathing.
They started with a bottle of sparkling wine —the smooth, sweet kind that tickles the tongue and makes laughter come easy. The cork popped with a joyful sound, and the fizz danced in their glasses as they clinked them together.
“To Christopher’s academic legacy,” Buck said with mock solemnity.
Eddie chuckled.
“Yeah, may his handwriting one day become legible.”
They drank. Talked. Laughed. The conversation flowed lazily, easy as the bubbles in their glasses. Buck told him about Maddie and how Chim had once again overcooked dinner. Eddie shared stories from Adriana’s family, from Chris’s latest adventures in Canada.
It was the kind of night that made the world feel small and safe.
When the bottle was empty, Buck went to rummage through the unopened crates stacked in the corner of the living room. He crouched down, reading the labels like a man choosing his destiny, before triumphantly holding up a deep red.
“This one looks fancy,” he said, grin crooked, eyes gleaming in the low light.
Eddie winced internally. Red wine.
Bad idea. Red wine always dragged the truth out of him like a tide pulling secrets from the shore.
And, of course, once it opened, the mood shifted.
The laughter quieted. Their voices softened. The room felt smaller, warmer.
Buck spoke first —about therapy, about how things were getting better but still hard. How he’d finally told his parents the truth, the whole truth: that he didn’t want them in his life unless it was about Maddie or Jee-Yun. His voice trembled only once, but Eddie noticed. He always noticed.
Eddie listened in silence, nodding, the weight of Buck’s words settling heavy in his chest. He told him, then, about Christopher. About how much he missed him, how fast he was growing, how he sometimes wished he could rewind time just to hold his toddler again —to feel the soft curls, the weight of that small body asleep against his shoulder.
By the time they finished the second bottle, both men were blinking back tears, their hands too close on the couch cushion, the air too thick with everything they hadn’t said.
Eddie reached for another bottle.
Rosé this time. A mistake, he knew, but one he was already too far gone to avoid.
That one always made him too happy —and too warm.
By the time they were halfway through, the atmosphere had changed completely. The air hummed with something unspoken. Buck had unbuttoned his shirt, just a little, the fabric loose and soft against his chest. His skin was pale in the lamplight, dusted with hair, and Eddie’s gaze found it before he could stop himself.
God help him, he couldn’t look away.
His mouth went dry. His pulse stumbled. His mind —usually so disciplined, so controlled— wandered to dangerous places. He imagined leaning in, burying his nose against that warm skin, breathing him in. Falling asleep to the steady rhythm of Buck’s heart beneath his ear.
Buck didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Maybe he just didn’t care.
They poured another glass, and another, until the rosé was gone and the room swayed in that soft, golden way that only wine could conjure. Eddie could feel the beat of his own heart in his throat, like it was trying to escape him.
Then came the white wine. The one that stripped away the last of his restraint, left him raw and open and —God, expressive.
By then, everything had changed.
Buck wasn’t talking anymore. The chatterbox had gone silent, and the stillness of it was loud in Eddie’s ears. Buck just looked at him, eyes soft, smile tender —the kind of smile that could stop a man’s pulse and restart it in the same breath.
Eddie felt it like a weight and a mercy.
If he died right there, he thought, it would be fine.
Dying in the glow of that smile, in the reflection of those blue eyes, wouldn’t be a tragedy.
It would just be the truth catching up to him at last.
Eddie didn’t know if it was the amount or the type, but the wine was definitely hitting him harder than he’d ever expected. Not like whiskey or beer, not like the fast, careless drunk of his twenties; this was something different. This was a quiet intoxication, a warmth that seeped into his skin and made his arms and legs heavy, his thoughts unspool like ribbons. The edges of the room softened, the couch felt deeper, and the low light in the living room blurred into a gold haze.
Everything felt distant and muted.
Everything except for Buck.
Buck, who somehow still looked sharp and bright against the blur, as if the glow of the lamp had chosen him alone. Buck, who was sitting close enough that Eddie could feel the warmth radiating off him like a heartbeat.
Buck. Always Buck.
“You know…” Eddie’s voice came out softer than he intended, like the hush of a prayer. The words slurred a little at the edges, but he slowed them down, trying to guide them carefully out of his mouth before they tangled. “Y-You… you’re like home to me.”
Buck blinked at him, glass of wine paused halfway to his lips. He gave a small, startled laugh, more air than sound.
“Home?”
Eddie nodded —solemnly, deliberately— as if this were the most important conversation he’d ever have. And in a way, it was.
Because Eddie knew Buck.
He knew the way Buck had spent his whole life looking for that word —home— in other people. Abby. Ali. Taylor. Brief flashes of warmth that Buck tried to build into a hearth. Each relationship was an attempt to make up for the place he’d never really had as a kid, the sense of belonging that had always been denied him.
And here they were, two men on a couch with too many bottles of wine between them. And Eddie realized he wanted Buck to know —needed him to know— that, somehow, he’d managed to become exactly what he’d been looking for. Not just for Eddie, but for Christopher, too.
“Yeah,” Eddie murmured, tilting his head toward him. “Not like walls and a roof —although you’re so big you could look like a wall—”
He waved a hand in the air, almost knocking over the wine bottle and chuckling softly at himself.
“It’s you. T-That way you talk too much but never enough, the way you…” He searched for words, heart pounding. “The way you stay. Y-You’re the safest place I know.”
The room went quiet.
For the first time Eddie could remember, Buck didn’t have an answer. Not a joke, not a tease, not a soft platitude to deflect the weight of it. Just silence. Eddie could hear him —the rapid thud of his heart, the shaky sound of air leaving his lungs— but nothing else.
And so Eddie kept talking, because the wine had cracked open the filter between his heart and his mouth, and once the truth started spilling, it wouldn’t stop. Embarrassment, fear, self-preservation—those things were shadows now, far behind him.
All that mattered was the flicker of light in Buck’s blue eyes.
“And…” His voice caught, but he pushed through, his hand still making vague shapes in the air. “You’re ridiculously handsome… Like, it’s not fair that you’re so handsome. It should be illegal to be that handsome.”
He laughed softly at his own words —half a laugh, half a sigh— as his head tilted and then fell without warning onto Buck’s shoulder. His forehead brushed warm fabric, the scent of Buck’s soap filling his senses, grounding him even as the room swam.
“God, Buck…” Eddie’s voice cracked, small and raw. “You’re everything.”
Buck went utterly still. The glass in his hand trembled. He was caught in that fragile space between a laugh and a sob, and Eddie didn’t even need to look to know there were tears pooling in his eyes.
Eddie smiled faintly, the corners of his lips trembling as if they couldn’t quite hold it together. He pressed his lips into a thin line, breathing in, breathing out. This was him —finally letting go of the weight he’d been carrying for years, of everything he’d hidden under the armor of discipline and jokes and long silences.
“If you knew how much I love you,” he murmured, the words falling against Buck’s shirt like a confession whispered in a church, “you’d probably be running away from me.”
And then, like a switch had flipped, his breathing began to even out. Soft snores escaped his lips, small and unsteady, like a child’s.
Buck stayed frozen. His eyes were wet. His heart was beating so hard it hurt.
And Eddie, even in sleep, still leaned into him as if Buck really was home.
Eddie groaned as consciousness dragged him up from the depths of sleep. His eyelids fluttered but refused to open fully; they felt like sandpaper. He turned his head and buried his face deeper into the cushion, the muffled sound that escaped his throat somewhere between a sigh and a wounded animal’s cry.
The cushion was cold.
That was the first thing he noticed.
No warmth. No weight. No trace of the solid, living heat that had been pressed against his side for most of the night.
Just fabric. Empty space.
He frowned against the cushion, his brow creasing as he inhaled and caught a faint scent —detergent, linen, and something else. Something familiar, faint but unmistakable. Buck.
He groaned again, louder this time, as if the sound could undo the memory of it.
Around him, the world was already awake. Through the cracked window came the distant hum of cars, the soft song of birds, and the rhythmic clatter of movement in his kitchen —pans, cupboards, the hiss of water running.
For a moment, disoriented and still half-dreaming, Eddie’s brain supplied the simplest explanation: home.
It felt like home.
And then that word jolted him upright.
Home.
The sudden movement sent a spike of pain straight through his skull. He winced, immediately regretting his life choices, and collapsed back into the cushion with a groan that was half despair, half surrender.
The light was cruel. Bright. Too bright. It stabbed through the curtains and into his head, syncing perfectly with the dull throb behind his eyes. His heart seemed to beat inside his skull, heavy and unrelenting, turning every sound —every passing car, every clink from the kitchen— into a hammer strike.
Shit. What did I do?
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the world to go quiet. But the problem wasn’t outside. It was inside.
Because the one thing Eddie Díaz hated more than the wine hangover itself was the memories it never failed to drag into the morning after.
He could feel it happening —the slow, torturous replay. His brain stitching together pieces of the night before like a bad home movie.
The laughter. The glasses clinking. The way the conversation had slid from light to heavy without warning. Then his voice —slurred but soft, clumsy but honest. The words spilling out before he could stop them. Words that had weight. Words that had meaning.
And finally, that last moment —his head resting on Buck’s shoulder, his lips parting just enough to whisper something he could never take back.
If you knew how much I love you, you’d probably be running away from me.
He groaned again, this time into his hands, the sound muffled but drenched in disbelief. His stomach turned as the rest of it came rushing back — the way Buck had gone silent, the way Eddie’s heart had thundered as he’d said it. The way the night had ended with confession instead of caution.
By the time the mental film ended, his stomach was twisted in knots, nausea crawling up his throat like a punishment.
Brilliant, Díaz. Just brilliant.
He sat up slowly, dragging himself away from the cushion’s false safety, elbows on his knees, head hanging between them. His palms pressed against his eyes, trying to block the light —or maybe the memory.
The world tilted a little. The room smelled faintly of last night: corks, wine, laughter turned into echoes.
Somewhere in the kitchen, a pan scraped. Buck was still here.
That realization hit him like a second hangover.
“Shit,” he muttered, voice hoarse, half prayer, half curse.
He ran both hands over his face, through his hair, and finally leaned back against the back of the sofa, the couch dipping beneath his weight. His body felt heavy, slow. His heart felt worse.
“I said too much,” he whispered, almost hoping the words would disappear into the air before they reached his own ears.
The sound of his own voice made him wince.
He needed to think. To breathe. To find a way to fix this —or at least to soften the impact. He didn’t want to make things weird. He didn’t want Buck to think it had been the alcohol talking, because it hadn’t been. Not really.
Every word had been true.
The wine had just loosened the lock he’d been holding on the truth for too damn long.
Eddie rubbed his temples, exhaling slowly, trying to piece together what the hell he was supposed to say when he faced Buck.
Something honest, but not too much. Something that didn’t sound like a plea. Something that said I meant it without saying I’m terrified you don’t feel the same.
He swallowed hard, his throat raw.
He wanted to tell him that what he’d said wasn’t drunken nonsense, wasn’t some lonely man’s spill of words. He wanted to make Buck understand that every syllable had been soaked in sincerity —that his feelings weren’t an accident of wine and silence, but something steady, built over years of laughter, danger, and quiet mornings like this one.
That Buck wasn’t just a friend.
He was the one thing Eddie couldn’t stop reaching for, even when he didn’t mean to.
"If I’m honest, you didn’t say enough," murmured a voice —warm, steady, and achingly familiar.
Eddie froze. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t sure if the words had been real or just the echo of his own guilt talking back to him. But then his brain caught up with his ears, and the meaning struck him like a slow sunrise.
He lifted his head.
Buck was there. Still there.
Leaning casually —or trying to— against the doorway that led from the dining room, with that infuriating mix of confidence and softness that belonged only to him. His broad frame filled the space effortlessly, the morning light brushing along his hair until it looked almost golden.
And those eyes. God, those eyes. They were warm, steady, open —the kind of blue that wasn’t cold but alive, full of something Eddie had been too afraid to name.
In his hands, Buck held two mugs. Steam curled lazily upward from them, carrying the unmistakable scent of coffee —rich, sweet, grounding. The smell alone made Eddie’s stomach twist, though he couldn’t tell if it was hunger, nerves, or the way Buck’s smile seemed to carry the weight of the whole damn morning.
He was smiling. Really smiling.
A smile so bright, it made the room look dim in comparison.
“I never thought you’d be the type to confess your feelings over a little wine,” Buck said, teasing gently, his tone threaded with affection. He took a slow step forward, then another, careful as if approaching a skittish animal. “Although, to be fair, you’ve always been a talker when you’re drinking.”
Eddie snorted, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, the corner of his lips curving up despite himself. “Guess that checks out.”
He hadn’t imagined it like this —God, not like this. Not in the messy tangle of last night’s clothes, with a pounding headache and a taste of regret still on his tongue. Not with his heart still half-shattered from the fear that he’d ruined everything.
He’d pictured something quieter, softer —maybe after one of their usual dinners, or while watching Christopher fall asleep on the couch between them. He’d imagined reaching out, brushing his hand over Buck’s, saying something simple, something brave.
But life rarely gave him the neat versions of things.
Without thinking, he reached for the mug Buck offered him. The ceramic was warm against his palms, and somehow, that small heat steadied the racing of his heart. He took a deep breath, letting the smell of coffee and Buck fill his lungs.
“Guess I just couldn’t hold it in anymore,” Eddie confessed quietly. His voice came out rough, still heavy with sleep and the weight of everything he hadn’t said before.
He turned toward Buck then, meeting his gaze fully, and offered a smile —small, fragile, but real.
That was it. That was always the way with them.
Words were clumsy things, but the truth lived in the eyes.
He just had to look at Buck the way he always did —the way he had been for years— and hope the message reached him: you’re the rhythm of my days, the steady pulse of my life. You’re what I want.
“Really?” Buck asked after a beat, head tilting slightly, his teasing tone softening. The smile faltered into something gentler, something that almost trembled. “You mean that?”
There was fear there —not disbelief, but the fragile kind of hope that can break a man.
Eddie didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached forward, took both their cups, and set them carefully on the table in front of them. The soft clink of ceramic on wood felt like punctuation, like an invisible enough stalling.
He turned, fully facing Buck now. The room seemed to shrink around them — the morning light bending toward their gravity, the air growing heavy with everything that was about to happen.
His head still ached. His stomach still churned. But none of it mattered.
Because Buck was looking at him with eyes that were impossibly blue, impossibly full of faith —and for the first time in forever, Eddie didn’t feel like running.
“I’m in love with you, Buck,” he said simply, letting the words fall into the quiet between them.
Buck’s breath hitched.
Eddie lifted his hand, fingers trembling slightly as he reached up to touch him — the warmth of Buck’s skin under his palm, the faint scrape of stubble beneath his fingertips. He let out a shaky sigh, thumb brushing along the line of Buck’s cheekbone like he was memorizing it.
“You’ve given me so much more than I ever thought I could have,” Eddie continued, voice low, steady, “more than I ever thought I deserved.”
For a moment, Buck didn’t move. His chest rose and fell too quickly, like someone learning to breathe again. And then —slowly, almost reverently— he leaned forward.
One of his hands slid around Eddie’s waist, drawing him closer, while the other came up to mirror Eddie’s, cupping the side of his face.
Their foreheads nearly touched. Their breaths mingled.
And then, just as Buck’s lips were about to close the distance, Eddie pressed his hand gently against them, stopping him.
“Wait,” he whispered, a soft smile flickering over his mouth. “Cielo… morning breath.”
Buck blinked, and then —to Eddie’s surprise and relief— laughed. A short, breathless sound that broke the tension like sunlight breaking through clouds.
“It doesn’t matter,” Buck murmured, taking Eddie’s hand from his lips and intertwining their fingers, grounding them both. His thumb traced small circles against Eddie’s skin. “Let me show you how much I love you, too.”
Eddie felt his chest tighten, something fierce and tender and overwhelming swelling inside him.
He smiled —not the polite kind, not the deflecting one, but something soft and certain.
And then he leaned in, closing the last inch between them.
The kiss was gentle at first, almost hesitant, like both of them were afraid of breaking whatever magic had finally brought them here. But then it deepened, grew, became something that soothed every ache —the pounding in Eddie’s head, the tremor in his heart, the years of what-if and almost.
The world fell away until there was nothing but this —the taste of coffee and laughter on Buck’s lips, the feel of steady hands, the sound of two hearts finally exhaling.
Maybe the wine had loosened the truth. Maybe it had dragged it out of him kicking and screaming.
But Eddie wasn’t going to hide it again.
Not now. Not ever.
When they finally pulled apart, neither of them spoke. They just stayed there, foreheads resting together, sharing the same quiet breath. Outside, the city was waking, sunlight spilling through the curtains like it knew something beautiful had finally happened.
Eddie smiled, his thumb tracing lazy circles against Buck’s hand.
“Guess the wine wasn’t a bad idea after all.”
Buck chuckled softly, brushing a kiss to his temple.
“Remind me to open another bottle for you next time.”
And just like that —with laughter, warmth, and the lingering taste of love between them— the rest of their life began.