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The boxes are already half-taped and labeled when Buck walks in, which only makes it feel more real.
He hesitates in the doorway, holding a six-pack of Topo Chico like a peace offering. Or a goodbye gift. He doesn’t know which.
It’s not like he hasn’t been here through this whole process—he helped take down the curtains, held open the back of the U-Haul while Eddie wrestled the mattress in—but this time feels different. More final.
“Hey,” Buck says quietly.
Eddie glances up from the floor where he’s crouched beside an open box, newspaper spread across his lap. “Hey. You’re early.”
Buck shrugs and steps inside. “Didn’t think you’d want to spend your last night packing alone.”
Eddie huffs a tired laugh and takes the water bottles from him. “Thanks. I was just getting bored.”
There’s a beat of quiet before Buck sets his keys down and starts pulling books off the shelf. “You label these yet?”
“No, I figured you’d want to argue about how to organize them.”
“I mean, if we’re doing it wrong, it’ll haunt me for weeks.”
“God forbid,” Eddie murmurs, amused.
Buck clears his throat. “So… this is it, huh?”
Eddie nods once. “Tomorrow morning.”
It hovers like morning fog, thick and unrelenting. Tomorrow morning.
Buck swallows, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He glances around the living room, memorizing every detail like it’s the last time he’ll see it. The photo wall. The dent in the corner of the coffee table from that time Christopher’s toy car went flying. The blanket Buck bought for Christmas folded by the door, ready to join the others in the U-Haul.
He wonders why it isn’t there already.
Buck’s fingers graze a familiar spine: The Hobbit. He pauses, thumbing the corner, remembering late nights when Christopher begged for just one more chapter. Eddie had always given in, even when he said he wouldn’t.
“Chris pick the new bedtime book yet?” Buck asks, voice casual.
Eddie doesn’t look up. “He says he’s into Percy Jackson now.”
Buck lets out a breath of a laugh. “Good taste.” He pauses. “What about the picture books? You taking all of them?”
“He wants to donate them. Says he’s grown out of them.”
Buck smiles and shakes his head. “He’s gonna be taller than you soon.”
“He already is,” Eddie mutters. “In attitude.”
Buck laughs and taps the spine of another book. “It’s eerie, seeing this place packed up.”
Eddie doesn’t respond.
Buck reaches for the next book, something in his throat tightening. “You sure about this?”
Eddie doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”
“Just feels fast, is all,” Buck says, studying the tightness in Eddie’s shoulders.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
“I know. But knowing and watching you go are two different things.”
Eddie exhales and stands to grab another box. “It’s better for Chris. And me. I’ve gotta bridge this gap, Buck.”
Buck nods, but he doesn’t say anything. He just folds the edge of a cardboard flap, presses it too hard, and feels it bend the wrong way.
Eddie notices. “Hey.”
Buck doesn’t look at him.
“Buck.”
Still nothing.
Eddie’s voice softens. “I’m not leaving you behind.”
A few more minutes pass. Buck pretends to care about the aligning of book spines. Eddie picks up a small picture frame. Buck watches him from the corner of his eye.
It’s the photo of the three of them at the beach— Eddie, Buck, and Christopher, all sunburned and smiling too wide. Buck had taken it on a self-timer after Christopher insisted they all pose like superheroes.
Eddie stares at it longer than necessary. Then he wraps it, gently, and places it in the box.
That’s when Buck says it.
“I thought maybe if I helped,” he starts, “it’d feel less like you were leaving me behind.”
Eddie exhales slowly through his nose. “I’m not leaving you behind,” he repeats. “I’m trying to do right by Chris. That’s always been the plan.”
“And I’m not saying you shouldn’t.” Buck keeps his voice even, but the hurt is rising under his skin like a tide. “I just thought maybe… I don’t know. Maybe I was part of the plan, too.”
Eddie’s mouth opens like he wants to say something—wants to agree, to explain, to fight, something—but nothing comes out.
Buck sets a book down, then another, deliberately focusing on the tidiness of the box. He doesn’t look at Eddie, doesn’t want to, but he has to say it. He has to get the words out before he chokes on them.
“I don’t know what this is,” he says. “Between us. I know we never… said it out loud. But it means something to me. You mean something to me.”
Eddie looks at him, and for a second, Buck sees it. The same ache. The same weight that’s been pressing on Buck for weeks.
But then Eddie drops his gaze, jaw tightening like he’s bracing to deliver a blow.
“Buck…”
Buck sits back on his heels, the words tumbling out now. “I guess I just needed to know if I was wrong.”
Eddie stares at him. Quiet. Still.
And then, quietly, “You’re my best friend, Buck.”
The words wash over Buck like he’s been dunked in a freezing lake.
They aren’t cruel or unkind. But they sound final.
Buck exhales shakily. He nods, like he understands, like he’s fine.
“Yeah,” he says finally. The corners of his mouth twitch, like he’s trying to smile, but it never quite makes it. “Yeah, I know.”
He swallows again and looks away. His fingers twitch at his sides, trying to reach for something to anchor him, but there’s nothing. Just cardboard and empty space.
He wipes his hands on his jeans and steps back.
“I’ll let you finish up.”
“Buck—”
“Let me know when you get in. Take care of yourself, Diaz.”
Buck turns toward the door, every step feeling heavier than the last.
Behind him, the door closes with a click that feels like it’s keeping something in.
Or maybe locking something out.
One week
Buck tosses the phone in his locker with the messaging app up still up, broadcasting his unanswered text of five days to Eddie:
Heard you landed. Hope everything is going well. Give Chris a hug for me.
The locker across from his is still labeled DIAZ, printed in thick black marker, fading a little at the edges like even the ink can’t decide whether or not it wants to let go.
Buck doesn’t correct it.
Ravi has been here for a week and a half. He hasn’t said anything about it, and Buck hasn’t offered.
Technically, it’s Ravi’s locker now. But nobody’s peeled the tape off, and nobody’s mentioned it. So it just stays.
Buck tells himself it’s because it’s not his place. That it’s someone else’s job. Cap’s. Admin’s. Ravi’s.
But really, it’s because he can’t bring himself to see it gone.
If the name comes down, it’ll be like admitting Eddie isn’t coming back. Like letting go of the last thing tethering him to the space they used to share.
So instead, Buck avoids looking at it. He keeps his eyes down when he changes, talks to Ravi with polite half-smiles and fast goodbyes. He keeps his locker door open just enough to block the view.
Except for the moments when the station is too quiet. When the engines are parked and the radios are silent and his hands have nothing to do.
Then he stares.
He lets his gaze catch on the slanted curve of Eddie’s handwriting, on the slight wrinkle in the tape where Christopher’s name had once been written underneath for a school visit.
And he wonders.
What would’ve happened if he’d stayed quiet?
If he hadn’t said anything that night?
Would Eddie have looked back?
Would it hurt less, or just differently?
Some days, Buck thinks it might’ve been better if he never said a word.
And some days, he thinks it’s the only thing he’s ever done right.
But most days, he just stares.
And misses him.
Four weeks
There’s a text he doesn’t send.
He types it out on the couch, phone glowing against his knee in the dark, half a movie left playing in the background that he’s not watching.
You guys settle in ok?
His thumb hovers. It’s casual. Friendly. Something anyone might ask.
He deletes it and tries again.
Did you ever find that missing box of tools? The one with the wrench set.
That one’s safer. Impersonal. Maybe even helpful. He can imagine Eddie replying to it. Short, probably. Maybe a “yep, found it behind the pantry” or something stupid like that.
But then what?
What does he say after that?
So he deletes it, too.
He rests the phone on his thigh and stares at the blue light bouncing off the ceiling.
Then he types the last one.
I miss you.
Three words. Uncomplicated. Honest.
He doesn’t even try to pretend it’s a joke or try to make it lighter.
He stares at it, thumb trembling slightly over the send button.
For a second, he imagines it going through. Imagines Eddie seeing it, blinking at the screen, heart stopping for half a second the way Buck’s does every time his phone buzzes.
He imagines Eddie typing something back.
He imagines behind let down.
So he sighs and presses hard on the backspace.
The screen goes blank.
Buck locks his phone, and sets it screen-down on the coffee table like it's radioactive.
Then he leans back, closes his eyes, and pretends like it’s all okay.
One month, two weeks
Maddie’s place smells like cinnamon and baby shampoo. There’s a soft hum of music from the kitchen, the faint clatter of pans, and the sleepy murmur of Jee-Yun babbling in the next room.
Buck’s sitting at the kitchen island, staring into a cup of tea he doesn’t remember accepting. Chim is telling a story—something about a patient who tried to steal an IV pole—and Maddie is laughing, eyes crinkling the way they do only when she’s trying a little too hard.
Buck smiles when he’s supposed to. He even adds a joke of his own. It lands how he wanted it to. Chim chuckles, and Maddie rolls her eyes.
But when the laughter fades, so does Buck.
He drifts, gaze unfocused, shoulders just a little too tense. His thumb traces the rim of his mug absentmindedly, wishing the warmth in his hands could spread to the rest of his body.
Across the counter, Maddie watches.
She doesn’t push right away. She waits until Chim goes to check on Jee-Yun. Then she moves around the island and slides into the seat beside him. Her hand rests lightly on his arm, thumb brushing just once.
“Have you heard from him?”
Her voice is soft. No judgement. It’s just a question from his sister who knows him better than anyone.
So why does he bristle at it?
He doesn’t answer for a good minute. He just stares at the cup in his hands.
“No.” Buck swallows hard and adds, “Not a word.”
Maddie nods like she expected it. She lets the silence sit for a moment. She knows better than to try and fill it.
“He’s probably just trying to settle in,” Buck offers. It sounds weak, even to him. “New place, new routine. It’s a lot.”
“Yeah,” Maddie says gently. “It is.”
There’s a pause. Buck shifts in his seat. His jaw flexes like he’s chewing on something he’d rather spit out.
“I don’t think he’s coming back,” he says quietly. “Not just to L.A. I mean to me.”
Maddie squeezes his arm. “You don’t know that.”
Buck shakes his head. “I do. I think I knew it the second I opened my mouth.”
“You didn’t say too much, Evan.”
He looks at her, tired. “Didn’t I?”
She holds his gaze. There’s nothing but love in her expression, fierce and patient and knowing.
“If he didn’t know how to handle the truth,” she says, “that’s not on you.”
Buck exhales. His shoulders sag a little. Her words should make him feel better. They don’t.
“I just miss him,” he says.
“I know.”
Maddie rests her head briefly against his shoulder.
Buck’s eyes return to the mug, as if the answers to all of his heartache will be written in the steam.
Three months, one week
He dreams of him.
Not dramatic dreams like big declarations or huge life altering moments. Nothing that would sound like a fantasy if you wrote it down.
But small things.
Eddie rinsing dishes in the sink, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the late afternoon sun sliding golden through the kitchen window and catching in his hair. He’s humming something. Buck doesn’t know the song, but he doesn’t need to. He loves whatever it is.
Eddie in the driver’s seat of the truck, one arm resting on the window frame, the breeze catching his laugh and carrying it right into Buck’s chest. He glances over with a soft, content look like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.
Eddie at the edge of a conversation, just out of frame. He’s there, then he’s not. A flicker in Buck’s peripheral vision. A ghost of comfort.
Sometimes, in the dream, Buck reaches out to touch his wrist. Barely, just the edge of his fingers brushing skin. Most times, though, he doesn’t even get that far.
And when he wakes, it’s always the same.
A sharp inhale. The heavy press of the blankets. His heart pounding and then breaking.
He stares at the ceiling, throat tight, hands curled into the fabric of his sheets like he’s trying to hold onto whatever pieces haven’t slipped away yet.
The ache is different from the one he carries during the day. At least then he can hide it—tuck it under routines, beneath work and noise and movement.
But here, in the stillness before morning, there’s nothing to dull it.
No distractions. No calls. No fires to put out.
Just him and the knowledge that Eddie is out there living a life that Buck no longer fits inside.
Four months
His phone buzzes once against the countertop.
Buck doesn’t check it right away. He’s elbow deep in a sink full of soapy dishes, sleeves pushed up, thoughts drifting somewhere outside of the kitchen.
He assumes it's Chim. Or maybe Hen, sending a group chat meme again. Or Maddie with a picture of Jee-Yun in another oversized hoodie.
He dries his hands and walks over, rubbing the back of his neck absentmindedly. He picks up the phone and flips it over.
One message.
Hey. Coming to town next week. Chris wants to visit the station
That’s it.
Buck reads it once. Then again.
It’s not dramatic or emotional or personal. It’s… normal. Simple. Like no time has passed at all.
But from the way the air leaves Buck’s lungs, he knows that’s not true.
His hand tightens around the phone. He swallows and blinks down at the message like it might delete itself if he looks away.
Four months of silence. Four months of nothing.
And now—this.
He wants to text back. His fingers twitch toward the keyboard.
Great. Can't wait to see you two.
Yeah. Of course. Anytime.
I've missed you.
But he doesn’t type any of them.
He just sits on the edge of the counter, thumb brushing over the screen, heart hammering too loudly.
And for the first time in months, something stirs under the ache.
Hope.
Small. Fragile.
But still.
Hope.
Four months, one week
Buck is restocking med bags when it happens.
The engine bay is filled with the rhythm of routine—gloves snapping into place, Velcro straps being checked, voices echoing between open garage doors. It’s normal. Comfortable. Quiet that lives in repetition.
And then the front door opens.
And everything stops.
He doesn’t look up right away. He hears Hen first.
“Well, look who it is!”
Chim’s surprised laugh is next, and then a third voice he hasn’t heard in months but knows to the bone echoes in his head.
“Thought we’d stop by while we were in town.
Buck freezes, his fingers still on the trauma kit zipper, his back half-turned, his entire body suddenly tense. His heart kicks once, so hard he wonders if everyone else heard it, too.
He turns slowly.
And there they are.
Eddie’s standing just inside the bay, hair slightly longer, a little more sun on his skin, the faintest stubble on his jaw. Chris is in front of him, beaming, wearing his old LAFD station shirt like it still fits perfectly even though it’s too small.
Buck doesn’t move.
Eddie’s eyes find him almost immediately. Like he was looking for him specifically.
There’s no smile. No wave. No nothing. An unreadable expression that curls low in Buck’s stomach.
Hen reaches for Chris, already ushering him toward the kitchen to grab a snack. Chris goes easily, chattering about his new school, waving to Chim on the way.
Buck and Eddie are left standing across the bay from each other.
There's no longer 800 miles between them.
Simply air and a few feet.
Buck straightens up slowly, dropping the half-zipped bag onto the table beside him. His hands are still, but his pulse is not.
Eddie crosses the space between them like it's nothing.
Like four months didn’t pass in silence.
Like Buck didn’t bleed for every second that ticked by without a word.
When Eddie finally stops in front of him, he doesn’t speak right away. His expression is careful.
“Hey,” he says.
Buck nods once. “Hey.”
It’s like a replay of the last time they saw each other. Quiet. Practiced. Reserved.
“You look…” Eddie starts, then trails off.
Buck raises an eyebrow. “Tired? Pale?”
Emotionally destroyed?
“I was gonna say good.”
There’s a long pause between them. The noise of the firehouse drifts faintly in the background—Hen laughing with Chris, someone opening a fridge, the sound of boots scuffing on concrete.
Eddie shifts his weight.
“Can we talk?”
Buck swallows.
He’s not ready. He’s so not ready.
But he nods anyway.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “Yeah. Let’s talk.”
The rooftop, once they reach it, hasn’t changed from the last time they were up there together.
Same warped patches of tar near the edge. Same rusty folding chair wedged in the corner. Same skyline—flat and endless, the city humming below like it doesn’t care what’s lost up here.
Buck leans against the short ledge near the far side, arms crossed, wind tugging at the collar of his shirt. The sun is low enough to throw long shadows, turning everything golden and soft in a way that feels dishonest.
Eddie stands a few feet back. Not close enough or not far enough, Buck doesn’t know. He’s not in the right mindset to figure that out.
“I thought about texting,” Eddie says eventually. His voice is low, almost sheepish. “A lot.”
Buck doesn’t turn around.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
Buck lets the silence settle again. He doesn’t want to make it easy.
“I didn’t know what to say,” Eddie adds after a beat.
“That’s funny,” Buck says. “Neither did I. Still managed to get something out, though.”
A small sigh. “I deserved that.”
Buck finally turns to look at him. “You deserve a hell of a lot more than that, Diaz.”
Eddie meets his eyes, and Buck falters.
“So why are you here?” Buck asks, arms still crossed. “Really.”
Eddie exhales, jaw jumping. “Chris wanted to visit.”
“Right."
Eddie runs a hand through his hair. “Alright. It’s not just about him.”
“Sure felt like it when you left without looking back."
“I did look back,” Eddie says quietly. “You just weren’t watching.”
Buck huffs out a laugh. There’s no humor in it.
“I watched every second of it, Eddie. You packing up your life. Shutting down. Walking out. I watched all of it.”
Eddie doesn’t argue.
He steps closer, slowly, like he’s afraid Buck will bolt.
“I thought moving to Chris would make it easier,” Eddie says. “For him. For me. I always try to do right by him.”
Buck looks away for a brief moment. “I know.”
“But it didn’t make anything easier.”
Buck looks back at Eddie, and his breath leaves him in a rush. Reflected in Eddie’s eyes is the same ache Buck’s felt for months.
Open. Raw. Yearning.
“I felt it, too, Buck,” Eddie admits quietly. “Over the years. That nagging feeling that you and I should be something more than we were. And that night, when you said everything I’d been feeling out loud I–” Eddie’s voice breaks. He takes a moment to center himself. “I got scared, because I was leaving and I didn’t know how to… do this. With you.”
“Then why didn’t you call?” Buck demands, his hands shaking. “Do you know how many times I almost called you? I wanted to. God, I wanted to. Every time I saw something funny, or something happened at the station, or I just missed you. Which was always.”
Eddie’s face crumples slightly, like Buck’s words physically hit him.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie says quietly. “I should’ve.”
“You should’ve,” Buck echoes. His voice doesn’t rise. It drops, like it’s folding in on itself. “You should’ve called. Or texted. Or something. You should’ve said that I wasn’t crazy for thinking there was more to this.”
“I never thought you were crazy,” Eddie says. “I thought you were braver than I could ever be.”
Buck blinks. That stings more than he expected.
“I wasn’t brave,” Eddie continues, moving even closer.
He’s standing directly in front of Buck now, close enough that he can see the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out but isn’t sure if he’s allowed to.
“I didn’t know if I could choose you and still be who I thought I needed to be for Christopher,” Eddie says. “But I get it now. I wasn’t choosing him or you, and really, I didn’t even need to. I was just running from myself.”
Buck’s mouth opens, and then closes.
Well, fuck.
“I’m not going back,” Eddie says.
Buck’s brows furrow. “What?”
“I’m not going back to Texas. Not long-term. It’s not home. It never was, even if Chris is there. It’s not home the way L.A. is. Not the way you are.”
He wants to believe it. He wants those words to weave their way into his very DNA so they’re part of him even after he dies.
But he’s scared, too.
“I can’t do this if you’re going to run again,” he whispers.
Eddie’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I won’t.”
Buck moves first.
He steps into Eddie’s space until they’re toe to toe. Until there’s nowhere left to run.
Eddie exhales like he’s been holding that breath for a lot longer than four months.
His own hand lifts and covers Buck’s, threading their fingers together like muscle memory. His thumb brushes over Buck’s knuckles once. Then again.
It could end there.
It almost does.
But then Buck tilts his head, forehead brushing Eddie’s like a whisper.
Their lips meet in the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything but answers everything.
It’s soft and slow, a question and an answer, all wrapped into one.
Buck lets his eyes fall shut, and he thinks finally.
Eddie deepens the kiss just barely, the hand not holding Buck’s lifting to touch his jaw, steadying him like Buck might float away if he doesn’t.
When they part, it’s not far.
Their foreheads are still pressed together, their breath mingling between them.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Eddie promises.
Buck’s voice cracks around a smile.
“Good,” he says. “Because this time, I’m holding on.”
And Eddie lets him.