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If someone, a couple of years ago, had asked Buck how he'd feel about living at the Diaz house, he would’ve laughed —bright and sure— and said it would be the best thing in the world. To live with his best friends? To share mornings and nights, chaos and calm, under the same roof? That sounded like the kind of simple, quiet dream he’d never dared to believe could come true.
And for many years, that house on Bedford Street had been just that: a miracle stitched into ordinary days. It felt more like home than any set of four walls that had ever claimed to be his. Because in that space, he’d known what happiness actually looked like —not the loud, fleeting kind, but the steady, breathing sort that hums between people who love each other without needing to say it.
In that house, he’d found laughter echoing through late nights, the kind that made his chest ache in the best way. He’d built blanket forts with Christopher on lazy Sundays, fixed leaky faucets that didn’t really need fixing, and argued with Eddie about whether coffee counts as breakfast (Eddie said yes; Buck always cheated with a kiss and said no).
There were late-night projects scattered across the kitchen table, drawings and tools and half-finished plans that meant everything and nothing all at once. There were sleepy mornings filled with the smell of coffee drifting down the hallway —the unspoken “good morning” that didn’t need words. There were pancakes made too sweet, smiles shared over mugs, and quiet hugs that didn’t ask for anything in return but offered everything that mattered.
That house had been the soundtrack of his heart —the laughter, the footsteps, the steady rhythm of belonging.
And likewise, if someone had asked him a couple of years ago how he’d feel if he could never return to that house, Buck probably would’ve laughed again —nervously this time— and then, later, when he was alone, he would’ve cried.
Because not returning didn’t just mean leaving a building behind. It meant losing them. It meant losing the echo of Christopher’s laughter bouncing off the walls. It meant losing Eddie’s quiet presence in the next room, the one that had always made him feel safe even when the world didn’t.
Not returning meant being left behind by the people he loved most, watching life continue from the outside of a window he once looked through from within. It meant silence where there used to be warmth, distance where there used to be closeness.
And for Buck, who had spent so many years learning how to belong, that kind of loss was more than heartbreak —it was a hollowing.
Because the truth was, he hadn’t just lived at the Diaz house.
He’d lived because of it.
Now, Buck watches with a quiet, nostalgic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as the entire team moves around the house, their laughter and chatter spilling through the open doors. They lift boxes, shuffle furniture, argue over tape and labels —each of them handling the moment in their own way, pretending this is just another Saturday chore.
Boxes line the hallway like memories sealed in cardboard, each one labeled in Hen’s careful handwriting: Kitchen, Christopher’s room, Miscellaneous (don’t open until we’ve had wine). Chimney keeps making small jokes to cut the heaviness in the air, but even his laughter sounds softer than usual, as if he knows that too much noise might break whatever fragile spell still lingers here.
It’s been weeks of packing —slow, deliberate, almost ritualistic.
One or two boxes each day, just enough to feel movement without facing the weight of finality all at once. It had been Eddie’s idea at first, to make the process gentle, manageable.
But Buck had quickly realized what it really was, it was a way to delay goodbye, because it doesn’t feel easy at all.
He stands in the living room now, surrounded by the faint smell of cardboard, tape, and lemon cleaner. The furniture is gone, but the air is still thick with everything they lived here —the sound of Christopher’s laughter echoing down the hall, the quiet hum of Eddie’s guitar on Sunday afternoons, the low murmur of their voices blending together late at night.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Eddie crouched by a half-empty bookshelf, carefully placing a stack of old photo frames into a box.
His movements are precise, almost reverent, and Buck can’t help but notice the way his fingers linger on one frame longer than the others. The one with the three of them at the beach —Eddie’s arm draped around him, Christopher holding a melting ice cream, the sunset behind them painting everything gold.
Buck swallows hard. How do you pack away a life like that?
The morning sunlight filters through the curtains, catching the dust in the air —tiny flecks of gold floating between them.
Everyone had shown up without needing to be asked.
They had just known.
The whole 118 arrived at dawn with coffee, muffins, and ready to help.
Because they understood —even if neither Buck nor Eddie said it out loud— that this move wasn’t just physical. It was emotional, almost symbolic.
A chapter closing.
Hen looks up from the boxes and catches Buck’s gaze for a moment. There’s warmth there, a silent I know, before she goes back to labeling. Bobby passes by with a stack of folded blankets and pauses just long enough to clap Buck’s shoulder, grounding him back into the moment.
“Almost there,” Bobby says gently.
Buck nods, but his voice doesn’t come. Because almost there feels heavier than it should.
He feels Eddie’s presence before he hears him —the way he always does. A quiet shift in the air, a warmth that brushes against him even when they’re not touching. Eddie moves beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch, and for a second, they just stand there in silence, looking around at the space that had been their home.
The walls are bare now, stripped of color and photographs, but still humming with memory.
Buck breaks the silence first. His voice comes out low, careful.
“It’s strange,” he says. “The house feels bigger now. Like it’s… letting us go.”
Eddie’s eyes soften.
“Or maybe it’s been waiting for us to be ready.”
Buck lets out a quiet laugh, though it sounds more like a sigh.
“You think we are?”
Eddie hesitates. “I think we’re getting there.”
Buck’s gaze drifts to the window, where Christopher and May are sitting on the porch steps, sharing a bag of chips and arguing over who gets the last one. The sound of their voices —light, familiar, alive— cuts through the ache in his chest.
He thinks of what Eddie told him earlier. It’s a new beginning, not an end. He holds onto that now like a promise.
Still, there’s a lump in his throat he can’t quite swallow.
“There’s so much of us here,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “So many fights, so many makeups… so many little pieces of us in these walls.”
Eddie turns toward him fully then, his expression soft but steady.
“We’ll carry them with us, Buck. All of it. That’s the thing about love —it doesn’t stay trapped in a house.”
He slid one hand around Buck’s waist, pulling him closer until their bodies met, and brushed his nose gently against Buck’s shoulder —a wordless way of saying breathe, I’m here.
Buck exhaled shakily, setting down the lamp he’d been clutching to his chest like a lifeline. The familiar weight left his arms, but the ache in his chest didn’t.
He nodded, though the gesture was small and uncertain, then melted into Eddie’s touch, wrapping his arms around him as if he could hide from the entire world in that embrace. His face found its usual refuge against Eddie’s neck, where he could breathe him in —the faint scent of soap, a trace of coffee, something steady and safe.
“I don’t want to move,” he murmured, his voice quiet and frayed at the edges, the words slipping out in the unguarded tone of a child admitting fear. It hit Eddie straight in the heart, that innocence threaded through his confession. “There are so many beautiful moments here.”
Eddie’s chest tightened as he rested his chin briefly on top of Buck’s head. He could feel the sadness trembling through him —not just nostalgia, but that particular kind of grief that comes when you know you’re saying goodbye to something that shaped you.
Without a word, Eddie took Buck’s hand and led him down the hall, past the half-packed boxes and the hollow-sounding rooms, to their bedroom —the one they’d shared for the past few months.
The door creaked softly behind them, a sound that suddenly felt like memory itself —like the house sighing in sympathy.
Once inside, Eddie turned to face him. Gently, he reached up and placed his hands on either side of Buck’s face, coaxing him to look up, keeping him from hiding again. His thumbs moved slowly over his cheeks, tracing circles that spoke of comfort and promise.
“Amor,” he began, his tone soft but firm enough to anchor them both. Buck responded with a faint hum, the kind that said I’m listening but I might fall apart if I talk.
Eddie smiled faintly.
“I know this house has so many beautiful moments,” he said. “I know it’s hard to leave them behind. There are things we can’t take with us, no matter how much they mean…” His voice broke slightly before he steadied it again. “But think about why we’re moving. Think about what’s waiting for us.”
Buck’s breath caught, his eyes flickering toward the corner of the room where the light hit the wall just right, the same spot where they’d once danced barefoot, laughing over nothing and everything. He nodded slowly. Of course he knew. Every box sealed, every goodbye whispered into these walls had been leading them somewhere new —toward something more.
Along with the countdown to the new house came another countdown —the one marked on their calendar in quiet joy. Their surrogate’s due date. The moment they would finally meet the twins. Their family was about to grow in ways that felt impossible to put into words.
“I know,” Buck whispered, his voice low but certain.
Eddie leaned in and kissed him —softly at first, then with that tender reassurance that always told Buck you’re not alone in this.
When he pulled back, he intertwined their fingers, lifting Buck’s hand to his lips. He kissed each knuckle one by one, slow and deliberate, as though sealing each promise with care.
“We’ll make new memories with the kids,” Eddie said against his skin. “We’ll fill that new house with laughter and chaos and love until it feels like this one. I’ll take pictures of Chris’s growth marks here before we go and carve them on the door there. Then we’ll do the same for the twins.”
Buck’s eyes softened as Eddie spoke. Each word felt like a thread stitching over the ache in his chest.
“The most important thing,” Eddie continued, kissing him again —just a brief brush of lips, enough to make Buck’s heart flutter— “is that we’ll be together. The three of us.” He paused, smiling. “Five, once the twins are here… six, if you count the cat.”
Buck let out a breathless laugh, the first real one in hours. “You’re really counting the cat?”
“Hey, he’s family too,” Eddie teased, the corners of his mouth lifting. “A grumpy, entitled family member, but still.”
Buck smiled, that wide, dimpled grin that Eddie swore could stop time. He leaned forward, kissing him again, this time with more certainty, more warmth. The kiss was soft and slow but sure —like the quiet realization that home isn’t a place, it’s a person.
Because it was true.
They might be leaving Bedford Street behind —those walls that had held laughter, tears, and more love than either of them had known before— but they weren’t really leaving home.
Home was here, in the way Eddie held him, in the sound of Christopher’s laughter down the hall, in the soft pulse of life waiting for them not far away.
They were taking all the important things with them —every memory, every heartbeat, every promise whispered into the dark.
Because family wasn’t made of addresses or blueprints. It was made of people.
And they were forever.
For a long moment, neither of them moves. The hum of conversation fills the background, the scrape of furniture against the floor, the creak of the stairs as Bobby and Chimney make another trip to the truck.
Then Eddie reaches out, his fingers brushing against Buck’s hand, finding it easily and holding on. Buck squeezes back without a word.
Outside, the moving truck engine rumbles to life. The house feels suddenly quieter, emptier.
Christopher’s laughter fades into the distance as he helps Hen carry the last of his toys to the car.
Buck takes one last look around —the sunlight on the wall where their bed used to be, the shadow of the kitchen door where Eddie used to lean when he made coffee, the echo of his own heartbeat that once matched the rhythm of this house.
And for the first time, he doesn’t feel crushed by the loss.
He feels full. Full of all the life they lived here, and full of the new life waiting ahead.
He turns toward Eddie, eyes soft but sure.
“Ready?”
Eddie nods.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, squeezing his hand again. “Let’s go home.”
And as they step out into the golden light, the front door closes softly behind them —not an ending, but a continuation.
Because the house had been beautiful.
But home?
That was walking right beside him.