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After that strange call —the one where an elderly woman of indeterminate age and even more indeterminate origin placed her wrinkled palm against Eddie’s forehead, whispered something that sounded like a cross between Latin and a bad Wi-Fi signal— things started to go sideways.
And not just a little sideways.
Like full-force, downhill-on-roller-skates-without-brakes sideways.
It began early Monday morning. The kind of morning where the universe wakes up specifically to mess with you. Eddie startled awake, feeling a series of soft tapping sounds against his forehead. At first, in that foggy state between dreams and reality, he thought it was Christopher trying to wake him up. But when he opened his eyes, everything in the room looked perfectly normal —too normal. Suspiciously normal.
Then he turned to check the alarm clock.
It was off. Completely dark.
A cold wave of dread crept down his spine. They were late.
Tap.
Another tap against his forehead.
He looked up and finally noticed it —a small but persistent leak in the ceiling, dripping rhythmically onto his face. And because it had rained all night with the intensity of a biblical apocalipsis, the water had left a faint reddish streak across his forehead, like some tragic warrior mark.
Things only spiraled from there.
While he rushed to help Christopher get dressed, he dropped his son's books not once, but three times. His coffee burned. The milk for the cereal was expired —by a very concerning number of days— and when he tried to brush his teeth, his toothbrush slipped from his hand, bounced off the sink like it had a personal vendetta, and landed straight into the toilet bowl.
He closed his eyes, inhaled through his nose, and let his forehead meet the bathroom mirror with a quiet, painful thud.
"You're having a really bad day," Christopher muttered sleepily from the doorway, his hair sticking up in impossible directions, dragging his feet toward the dining room to grab his backpack.
Yes. Yes, he was.
He already knew there was no way he'd make it to work on time, but still, out of responsibility —and guilt—, he tried to turn on his phone to call Buck —and Bobby, of course— only to realize it was dead. Completely.
Eddie held back a scream, shoved a very soggy-looking, still half-asleep Christopher into the truck, and started driving toward school like a man possessed, rain still pounding against the windshield. It was only as they turned the corner that he remembered —loudly— that Christopher didn’t have school that day.
Muttering a string of words that would definitely require the Sweary Jar later, he changed course and headed for the station instead.
By the time the phone finally turned on —after a desperate, shaky 5% charge— he had 20 missed calls from Buck. Twenty.
He called immediately.
“Hey, Edds! Is everything okay? Bobby’s worried.”
He could hear Buck smiling through the phone. Normally, that smile made something in Eddie’s chest warm and complicated. Today, it only made him exhale in pure exhaustion while he glared at the traffic in front of him.
“The alarm didn’t go off, I have a leak in my house, we didn’t have breakfast, Christopher doesn’t have school, and I’m stuck in traffic,” he muttered, not even bothering with a ‘good morning’ because, honestly, this was not a good morning. “Tell Bobby I’m on my way, and that I’ll go with Chris, at least until I can call someone to pick him up.”
“Tell Bucky you also dropped your toothbrush in the bathroom and got burned by the burnt coffee,” Christopher added from the backseat without looking up, casually scribbling on his drawing tablet like this was a perfectly normal Monday.
Buck’s laugh burst through the speaker —one of those full-body laughs that could fix the world or break your patience, depending on the day. Eddie closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against the steering wheel.
And the horn began honking.
And it did not stop.
“Día de mierda,” he hissed under his breath, lifting his head as the horn kept blaring like it was personally offended.
“Sweary Jar,” Christopher sang, completely unapologetic.
Buck, of course, echoed with a cheerful, “Sweary Jaaaar.”
Eddie could hear him still smiling when Buck added, “I’ll tell Bobby about your curse and get everything set up here so you can have breakfast.”
And that word —curse— made Eddie’s eyebrow twitch.
“Curses don’t exist, Buck,” he said sharply, grateful as traffic finally began to crawl forward.
“Tell that to your broken horn, Eds.”
Eddie answered with the mature, responsible act of hanging up the call. Not aggressively. Not dramatically. Just… Done.
He exhaled, gripped the steering wheel, and mentally braced himself for the day ahead —the long, not-cursed, coffee-burned, toothbrush-in-the-toilet kind of day.
Upon arriving at the station, the two Diazes walked in slowly, leaving a damp trail of rainwater on the polished concrete floor. Their clothes stuck to their skin —cold, clingy reminders of a day that had barely begun and already felt endless.
Christopher, despite being soaked and disheveled, wore an excited smile. His eyelids were still heavy with sleep, but his gaze was bright, searching the room for something —or more accurately, someone. Eddie knew exactly who.
Eddie, on the other hand, felt like every step he took was held together by sheer willpower.
His body moved, but his mind was somewhere else entirely, replaying the morning like a bad movie he couldn’t turn off: the leak, the toothbrush, the coffee burn, the traffic, the horn that wouldn't stop screaming. He kept asking himself the same question, over and over in his head like a scratched record.
How did everything go so wrong so fast? Was it really just bad luck or—
He refused to finish the thought. Curses weren’t real. They weren’t. Right?
He didn’t have long to dwell on it because that’s exactly when Buck appeared.
Descending the loft stairs two at a time, with his hair slightly messy and a smile too bright for this hour of the morning, Buck looked like the human version of a warm cup of coffee —the good kind, not the burnt kind Eddie had made earlier.
“How are my favorite Diazes?” Buck asked, voice light and full of genuine warmth.
Before Eddie could form an answer —or even remember how to speak like a functional adult— Buck leaned down and wrapped Christopher into a quick hug. Then he pulled back, blinking in surprise.
“You’re soaked.”
“Buck!” Christopher beamed, hugging him back tightly before stepping away. “We got wet leaving the house, and when we got to school, and when we came in here.”
Eddie watched the two of them, something tugging quietly behind his ribs. Buck still smelled like soap and coffee and comfort. Eddie could feel the tension in his shoulders releasing —just a little.
As if summoned by the noise, Hen appeared around the corner, her smile soft but her eyes far too knowing. She didn’t say anything at first, she just took in Eddie’s drenched clothes, his defeated posture, and the way his hair was plastered to his forehead like he’d lost a fight with a stormcloud.
Hen raised an eyebrow, amusement simmering in her expression, but instead of teasing, she gently placed a hand on Christopher’s shoulder and angled her head toward the locker room.
“Come on, Chris, let’s see what we can find for you to change into,” she said. Her voice was kind, even though she was clearly fighting back a laugh. “Maybe Chimney’s clothes fit you now.”
From the hallway, they could already hear Chimney protesting something loudly. Moments later, the sound of squeaky wet sneakers echoed behind them as Hen guided Christopher away.
Quiet settled in the space between Eddie and Buck. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty —it was filled with understanding, concern and a hint of mischief.
Eddie let his arms drop to his sides, tiredly exhaling. His shoulders slumped in surrender. He didn’t have to say anything for Buck to know how done he was.
Buck took a couple of steps toward him, eyes roaming over Eddie’s face, his soaked jacket, the exhaustion pooled under his eyes.
“What did you do, Eds?” he asked, halting mid-step as if the rainwater might be contagious. “Did you run into a black cat? Break a mirror? Turn down a gypsy at a stoplight?”
Eddie let out something between a groan and a laugh, dragging one hand down his wet face as droplets clung stubbornly to his lashes.
“It’s just a bad day, that’s all,” he muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder.
“More like a bad curse,” Buck said with a tilted grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
Eddie shot him a sharp look. He opened his mouth to retort, but Buck was already fishing his phone out of his pocket.
“What—?”
“Go change,” Buck said simply, not looking up from the screen as his fingers flew across it. “Bobby’s finishing breakfast. I’ll start looking up easy rituals to remove curses.”
Eddie blinked. “Buck—”
But Buck was already turning away, heading back up the stairs like someone on a mission from Google and questionable witchcraft forums.
Eddie stood there, bewildered, half-annoyed and half... Charmed. He would never admit that out loud.
He’s ridiculous, Eddie thought, not bothering to stop the small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. He’s ridiculous, and I’m soaked and not-cursed, and somehow he still makes it a little less awful.
He took a step toward the locker room.
And promptly slipped. In his non-slip boots.
His arm smacked against the side of the fire truck with a sharp thud. Pain bloomed instantly.
“¡Mierda!” he hissed, clutching at his elbow.
“Sweary Jar!” Chris called from somewhere behind the lockers.
“Sweary Jar!” Buck echoed from the loft, like he’d been waiting for it.
Eddie closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose, cheeks flushing as he muttered, “This day is never going to end.”
He finally straightened up, shook off the water, the embarrassment, and the ache in his arm, and headed toward the showers.
He didn’t believe in curses.
He didn’t.
But for the first time that morning, he kind of wished he did. Because at least then, he’d have something to blame.
The shift had been surprisingly calm —unnervingly calm, if Eddie was being honest. The alarm had only gone off three times in the last few hours —just enough to remind them they were firefighters, not enough to call it a hectic shift. Bobby, in a rare act of mercy, had left Eddie as man-behind so he could stay at the station with Christopher.
Well… that had been the plan.
Because on one of the calls, when Buck had rushed past the kitchen table already half suited up, Christopher had looked up from his drawing and asked, “Can I go with you? I want to see Bucky be a hero today.”
And Bobby —traitor that he was— had simply smiled and said, “Helmet on, kiddo. Stay with Buck and don’t touch anything.”
So Eddie had stayed behind alone in the quiet station, the silence too loud around him. He kept replaying it: his son climbing into the truck beside Buck, Buck flashing him that reassuring smile —the one that said trust me, I’ve got him. Eddie trusted him. Of course he did. That didn’t stop the anxious drum in his chest.
So Eddie tried to do his chores, mop in hand, laundry halfway sorted, inventory clipboard abandoned on a table, all while keeping one eye on the door and the other on the clock. His day was dragging on, thick and heavy —like wading chest-deep through mud.
But apparently the universe had marked his name with a red Sharpie and underlined it twice.
Because the bad luck didn’t stop.
He slipped near the engine bay. Again. Bruised his shin on a hose rack and then elbowed a counter so hard he saw stars. He cursed under his breath, more than once, and even from the truck bay, he heard Christopher’s —and Buck’s— voice echo in his head saying “Sweary Jar.”
By noon, he had accumulated enough injuries that he knew —knew— Buck was going to lift his sleeves later and say something like “Who did this to you, Díaz?” in his hero voice.
Still, he survived.
Barely.
By the time the engine crew returned from the last call —Buck, Hen, Chim, Ravi, and Christopher skipping behind them with a giant grin— Eddie was equal parts relieved and exhausted.
They walked in laughing, relaxed, shedding turnout coats as they talked animatedly about something Chimney had done involving a cat and a fence. Hen was smirking. Bobby looked calmer. Even Ravi was smiling.
But what held Eddie’s attention —what made everything else go a little quiet— was Buck.
Because Buck didn’t take off his gear. Didn’t stop to talk to Hen or grab a water bottle. He made a beeline straight for Eddie. His smile was wide, bright, obnoxiously proud and Eddie had to fight the instinct to smile back.
“I found a solution,” Buck announced, breathless and proud, as if he’d just discovered fire.
“A solution to what?” Eddie blinked, unsure if he should be scared or grateful.
Instead of responding, Buck dug into one of his turnout coat pockets and pulled out a thin, red cloth ribbon —wrinkled, slightly damp, and held like it was a relic.
Eddie squinted. “Is that it?”
“It’s a blessed red ribbon,” Buck declared in a voice far too solemn for someone holding a wrinkled piece of fabric. “For energy protection. I called Abuela, and she said it works. So give me your arm.”
Eddie stared at him. Then at the ribbon. Then back at him.
Is he serious? He’s serious… Oh God, he’s serious.
He shook his head, taking a small step back.
“Buck—”
Buck grabbed his wrist anyway, gently but insistently, his fingers wrapping around Eddie’s forearm with familiar, warm confidence. Eddie stumbled a little, but didn’t pull away.
He shouldn’t. He could… But he didn’t want to.
His pulse was embarrassingly loud in his ears.
Buck’s fingers moved quickly, tying the ribbon around Eddie’s wrist in a clumsy knot. The fabric brushed against Eddie’s skin, followed by the graze of Buck’s fingertips —light, careful, lingering just a second longer than necessary.
Warmth bloomed under Eddie’s skin. Spread through his arm. Settled low in his stomach like a slow-burning ember.
He tried to ignore it. Failed miserably.
“Do you really think this is going to keep me from having a bad day?” Eddie stared at the ribbon, a skeptical frown tugging at his lips.
Buck looked up at him, blue eyes bright and completely unbothered by Eddie’s disbelief.
“Just have faith, Eddito,” he said, imitating Abuela’s tone badly —and adorably— which earned him a gentle punch on the shoulder.
Eddie rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched anyway.
Faith.
He didn’t believe in curses. Didn’t believe in red ribbons or whispered blessings or old women with mysterious hand-touching rituals.
But he believed in Buck.
And that was worse. Better. Complicated. All at once.
So Eddie sighed, quietly, almost to himself.
“Fine. Maybe it can’t make things worse.”
The ribbon sat snug around his wrist. Warm. Bright. Ridiculous.
But for the first time that day, he didn’t feel unlucky.
The red ribbon didn’t work.
Eddie knew it. Buck knew it. Hell, the entire station knew it the moment one of the supply crates slipped off the storage shelf and came crashing down directly onto Eddie’s foot.
Pain shot up his leg like lightning. He let out a sharp, guttural scream —louder than he meant to— loud enough to make Hen drop her coffee and Chim nearly fall off a stool. Even Bobby looked up from his paperwork, eyebrows raised in alarm.
Now, after the chaos had settled and everyone was sure no bones were sticking out, Eddie found himself sitting on the worn leather couch in the loft. His boot was off, his foot elevated on a pillow someone had mercifully shoved under his ankle. His brow was furrowed, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout he’d never admit to. It was childish. He knew that. He didn’t care.
The day still hated him. The universe still hated him.
And that stupid red ribbon still clung to his wrist like a cosmic joke.
He heard footsteps on the stairs —familiar, light, recognizable even when he tried not to care— and didn’t bother lifting his head until the boots appeared in front of him.
Buck.
“Hey,” Eddie muttered, voice flat, refusing to adjust his sulking posture.
“Oh, Eds…” Buck breathed, soft and full of something dangerously close to fondness. He sat down beside him, thigh brushing against Eddie’s. He placed a warm hand on Eddie’s shin, just above the knee, his thumb unconsciously tracing small circles as he inspected the elevated foot. “Looks like we’re gonna need a stronger ritual.”
Eddie’s breath hitched —barely noticeable, but there.
Stop it, he told himself. It’s just a hand. It’s Buck. It’s always Buck. Don’t make it weird.
He bit the inside of his cheek to stop anything embarrassing from slipping out. Emotion. Sound. Need.
He scoffed instead, rolling his eyes in an attempt to seem unaffected.
“Apparently you need to stop following witchcraft blogs.”
Buck grinned, unoffended.
“It wasn’t a blog. It was Abuela... And a community forum about supernatural cleansing and emotional energy transfers.”
“That sounds worse,” Eddie deadpanned.
Buck didn’t move his hand from Eddie’s thigh. If anything, his palm settled more firmly, warm and solid through the fabric of Eddie's uniform.
“I’m serious. Abuela said if the ribbon didn’t work, there’s a second step. Salt, a prayer, maybe an egg—”
“An egg?” Eddie repeated, staring at him like he’d lost his mind. “You’re going to rub a breakfast item on me to fix my day?”
Buck nodded enthusiastically.
“It’s spiritual. Also organic.”
Eddie let his head fall back against the couch cushion, staring up at the ceiling with a long, exhausted sigh.
Why do I tolerate this? Why do I love— no. Not love. Not going there now. Just… tolerate. Affectionately.
Downstairs, he heard Chim and Hen whispering and trying not to laugh too loudly. Bobby pretended not to listen while very much listening. Chris was at the table drawing something vaguely horse-shaped and saying to himself ‘It’s definitely a curse.’
Eddie glanced at Buck again. At the ridiculous red ribbon still tied to his wrist with clumsy knots and care. At Buck’s blue eyes, so full of concern and mischief and something Eddie couldn’t let himself name.
He swallowed.
“Fine,” he muttered, trying not to smile. “But if you come near me with an egg, I’m quitting this job and moving to Canada.”
Buck’s smile softened —relief, amusement, warmth all wrapped into one.
“Deal.”
And even though his foot throbbed, his head ached, and the day still felt cursed, Eddie realized it hurt a little less when Buck was sitting beside him.
When the shift finally ended, Buck helped Eddie into the Jeep with the kind of gentleness that made Eddie’s chest tighten, then practically pried Christopher out of Hen’s arms —she’d been showing him cat videos on her phone just to distract him from Eddie’s string of catastrophes. Buck buckled Chris into the back seat, checked Eddie’s foot one more time, and only then started the drive home.
Eddie’s bad luck, however, refused to clock out.
After the crate falling on his foot earlier, everything that could possibly hit, bump, fall or fly towards that same foot… did.
A spoon slipped from the kitchen counter and landed right on it. Chimney's phone slipped from his hand while telling a story and bounced off Eddie’s toes. A wrench —God knows why there was a wrench on the kitchen table— rolled off and clattered onto the same cursed spot. He’d clamped his lips so tightly shut that he was sure he’d bruised the inside of his mouth trying to avoid cursing in front of Christopher and owing even more money to the “Sweary Jar”.
And as if fate wanted to take it personally, when Eddie attempted to drink his coffee on the couch, it splashed all over his shirt —hot, sticky, and humiliating.
Later, his phone slipped barely ten centimeters from his hand to the floor, and the screen still cracked, spiderwebbing across the glass like it was mocking him.
By the time he was in the passenger seat of the Jeep, Eddie sighed and let his head fall back.
This day is cursed. Absolutely cursed. But… I'm going home. I'm going home with Buck and Christopher. And they’re fine. They’re alive. They’re laughing. That’s what matters. Not the coffee, not the phone, not the bruises.
And he forces himself to breathe.
“Look, I read something interesting somewhere else,” Buck said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Eddie groaned before he could stop himself. His patience was hanging by a thread, and the mention of anything else made it snap just a little. Buck, however, remained unfazed.
“They say fire burns away bad energy.”
Eddie didn’t move his head from where it rested, but his eyes slid sideways to glare at Buck with the most unimpressed expression he could manage.
“Fire is dangerous,” he muttered. “And you shouldn’t be holding a lighter.”
Buck laughed under his breath and lightly tapped Eddie’s thigh with his fist. Eddie jerked his leg instinctively, pain exploding again in his foot. He let out a sharp hiss and a few muttered Spanish curses under his breath. Christopher burst out laughing in the back seat.
Buck only rolled his eyes, but Eddie could see it reflected faintly in the rearview mirror. The conversation about rituals ended there —or at least, Eddie thought it did. But Buck had that look in his eyes, the one that meant he was planning something anyway.
By the time they got home, Christopher went straight to his room, already in his “pajamas” from the station and yawning. They’d had dinner with Bobby and the others, so there was no need to worry about food. Eddie barely made it to the couch before Buck was pulling pillows, blankets, tucking his foot carefully onto a cushion.
And then Buck disappeared.
Eddie frowned. Great. Now he’s plotting. Never good when Buck plots.
A few minutes later, Buck reappeared.
“Come on. Outside.” he announced.
“Buck, my foot—”
“I’ve got you,” Buck said, and before Eddie could complain further, he was being helped onto his feet and practically dragged to the backyard.
Eddie blinked.
There, in the middle of his yard, was a bonfire crackling softly against the twilight sky. Christopher was sitting on a folding chair, a bag of marshmallows in his lap, humming as if distancing himself from whatever chaos his Bucky was about to unleash.
“Okay,” Buck said, determined, phone in hand, bag of salt in the other. “We need to add some salt to the fire to cleanse your curse. Energy purification, says here. It doesn’t say how much, though… How much do you think is enough?”
Christopher looked up from his marshmallow.
“Half a bag would be nice,” he said in the most nonchalant tone.
“Yeah? I thought I’d throw the whole bag,” Buck said, scrolling as though somewhere in that mess of Pinterest instructions there were official guidelines on backyard curse burning.
“Just a little, Buck,” Eddie sighed, exhausted. “I don’t want to have to call Maddie and explain why my yard is on fire.”
“Come on, Eds, trust me,” Buck pleaded, and Eddie didn’t even have to look at him to know there was a pout. I trust you with my whole life. Of course I do. That’s the problem.
“Actually, I saw a video of a Colombian lady who—”
“You’re not summoning anything in my yard, Buck,” Eddie snapped, snatching the salt bag from his hand.
He should’ve stopped there. Thought twice. But no —he threw a large handful of salt onto the fire.
The flames hissed. Sparks flew like angry fireflies. Smoke burst upward —straight into Eddie’s face.
Buck stumbled backward, grabbed Eddie instinctively, and they both tumbled to the ground with a hard thud, knocking the air out of their lungs.
Eddie blinked.
Buck was right there.
Their faces were inches apart. Eddie could feel Buck’s breath —warm, uneven, soft against his lips. His heart hammered in his chest.
I could close the gap. Just a little. I could kiss him. Right now.
But silence hung heavy —sharp, almost sacred.
Except for Christopher.
“Are you gonna fight the curse with kisses or something?” he asked, absolutely delighted, popping a marshmallow into his mouth.
Buck cleared his throat. Eddie did the same. They scrambled apart like teenagers caught doing something they shouldn’t. Eddie’s face was burning. He couldn’t stop the quiet laugh that escaped him.
A kiss from Buck… that’d be proof enough that I’m not cursed. Because no one with this kind of bad luck could be that lucky. It’d be like touching heaven.
He noticed Christopher and Buck staring at him curiously. Eddie flushed deeper, lowering his gaze.
“Guess the bad luck keeps going,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m going inside before I get struck by lightning.”
Buck rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.
Eddie limped toward the house, biting his lower lip to keep from complaining about the pain in his foot — and the ache in his chest.
The second ritual definitely hadn't worked.
Eddie realized it the next morning, long before he opened his eyes. First came the comforting sounds of someone moving around in the kitchen —dishes clinking softly, the low hum of Christopher talking to Buck about how many pancakes were necessary to cure a curse. The scent of coffee drifted in, warm and homey, and for a brief, blissful second, Eddie smiled into his pillow.
Maybe today will be better, he thought.
Then the bed collapsed.
Not a gentle creak. Not a single plank shifting. No —it was a full betrayal of wood and mattress, a dramatic crack followed by Eddie dropping half a meter, mattress and all, onto the floor.
He let out a scream that was definitely not dignified.
Pain shot up his spine, dust flew everywhere, and one of the broken slats jabbed uncomfortably beneath his back. Eddie stared at the ceiling, breathless, wondering if it was too early to just ask God to take him.
Footsteps thundered down the hall.
Buck appeared in the doorway, hair messy, spatula still in hand, eyes comically wide. He looked at Eddie as if he’d discovered a crime scene.
“Are you okay?” Buck asked, voice somewhere between panic and disbelief.
Eddie clenched his jaw to stop himself from saying the most sarcastic thing in human history. He swallowed it down and exhaled slowly.
“Do I look okay?” he muttered.
“What happened?”
Eddie dropped his head back in exasperation, only to smack it right against the jagged edge of a broken wooden plank. Pain exploded at the back of his skull.
“Mierda” he hissed, one hand flying to the sore spot. He winced loudly, eyes watering.
Buck’s expression melted from confusion to concern in a heartbeat. He rushed forward, kneeling amidst the wreckage of Eddie’s bed.
“Hold still,” he murmured.
Warm hands cradled Eddie’s face. Buck’s fingers were gentle but firm, checking for bumps, cuts, and any sign of damage. Eddie’s breath caught. It was ridiculous, really —after the mattress catastrophe and getting hit in the head, this was what almost made his heart stop? The way Buck touched him like he was something fragile, something precious?
“Let’s get you out of here,” Buck said softly, slipping his arms around Eddie’s torso with practiced ease. Without another word, Buck lifted him, and Eddie —too stunned or too tired to protest— wrapped his arms around Buck’s shoulders.
For a moment, everything felt steady.
Buck’s voice was soft against his hair. “We’re going to the couch. At least you can’t break that just by lying on it —probably.”
Before Eddie could answer, he felt it —the faintest brush of lips against his forehead. Not a kiss exactly, but not not one either. Just warm breath and soft contact that made something inside him shiver.
He wanted to stay in those arms forever.
But reality was cruel. Buck set him gently on the couch, and the absence of his touch felt colder than it should have.
Eddie bit back a noise of disappointment.
A few minutes later, Buck returned —holding two mugs of steaming coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, grinning like a kid who’d just found a YouTube tutorial on how to resurrect dinosaurs.
“Okay,” Buck announced, plopping down beside Eddie. “I’ve been researching. You need purification.”
Eddie stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“With salt water,” Buck continued seriously, as if this was perfectly normal breakfast conversation. He slung an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, tugging him against his body. “I found it on another curse-cleansing blog.”
Eddie let himself relax against him —because saying no to Buck had never been one of his skills, and because being close to him like this was dangerously addicting.
“The internet says so, huh?” Eddie mumbled, still half asleep, still sore from the fall. “I don’t think it’s very reliable.”
Buck made a thoughtful face, then shrugged.
“And when has the internet ever been wrong?”
Eddie raised one eyebrow.
Buck cracked. He snorted, then burst into laughter —the kind of laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made Eddie’s stomach flip. He relaxed even more, sinking deeper against Buck’s side, as if sitting like this —tangled together on the couch in the ruins of Eddie’s morning— was the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe, Eddie thought as he sipped the coffee Buck made just the way he liked it, maybe it was.
Even if I’m cursed… being cursed with you doesn’t feel so bad.
They ended up at the beach.
The sun was barely climbing into the sky, soft and golden, not yet harsh. Christopher walked a few steps ahead of them in the sand, one hand gripping his backpack straps and the other constantly tapping at the brim of his cap, making sure it was secure so he wouldn’t “burn his genius brain,” as he had said in the car.
Buck and Eddie stood at the shoreline, where the cold water brushed against their feet and the foamy waves dissolving against their ankles. The scent of salt and sunscreen tangled with the wind. Eddie already felt some of the tightness in his chest begin to loosen.
Buck rested his hand gently on Eddie’s bare back —warm, steady, grounding.
"You gotta let the ocean wash away the curse, Abuela said water holds power, especially the sea, " Buck said softly his fingers pressing gently against his skin. “So you throw yourself on your back seven times, and then you thank the sea for taking it away.”
Eddie stared at him, somewhere between fond disbelief and a desperate urge to believe something would work.
A part of him knew this was ridiculous —saltwater wasn’t going to erase exhaustion, broken beds, bruises, or the silent ache in his chest from the things he never said. But another part —the part that only woke up when Buck smiled at him— whispered, What’s the harm in trying?
“Seven times on my back. Thank the sea,” he repeated quietly, mostly to convince himself, and waded into the water.
The first time, he forgot to close his eyes. Salt burned like fire, and for a moment he wanted to walk straight back to the truck and never speak of it again.
The second and third falls were easier —if you ignored the sting of salt on his lips and the cold that crawled up his spine. Eddie could hear Christopher laughing from the shore, full and bright, and he kept his eyes closed so the burn wouldn’t return.
The fourth time, Eddie opened his mouth to complain —only to swallow a wave. Water shot through his nose. He coughed, spluttered, cursed in Spanish, and heard Buck shout, “Close your mouth, Eds!” like it was the most obvious thing in the universe.
And somehow, after that, each fall felt lighter. Less like punishment. More like letting something go.
By the time he rose from the seventh wave, Eddie blinked his eyes open, salt and sunlight blurring his vision. And there they were —like something out of a dream.
Christopher, leaning comfortably against Buck’s side, cap crooked, shirt damp from the mist, smiling like the world had never been cruel.
Buck, watching him like he was witnessing a miracle. Soft smile, eyes shining with something Eddie couldn’t name. Pride? Relief? Love? Buck ruffled Christopher’s hair under his cap when the boy said something Eddie couldn’t hear, and for a moment, the world felt quiet. Safe.
Eddie walked back toward them, tilting his head, exhaling a long breath. There was a quiet ease in the way they stood —calm in front of the ocean, the same ocean that had once tried to take them away from him.
He turned toward the sea again, chest heaving, hair dripping.
“Thank you,” he whispered —not for taking something away, but for everything it hadn’t taken from him. For not taking them. For every morning he got to wake up and see Buck in his kitchen, or Christopher sketching at the table. For love he still didn’t dare name.
Then —because sincerity always scared him more than bullets— Eddie whistled sharply, catching Buck’s attention.
Buck looked up instantly and narrowed his eyes.
“Eds… no. Don’t you dare—”
But Eddie was already running through the shallow water.
“Run, Buck!” Christopher screamed between laughs. “Catch him, Dad!”
Eddie caught him easily, wrapping his arms around Buck’s waist and hauling him over his shoulder in a perfect firefighter carry, so fitting it made Christopher wheeze.
Buck shrieked something that definitely included “Edmundo Ramón Diaz, put me down!” but Eddie only laughed and ran deeper into the water.
And then he dropped them both into the sea.
They surfaced in chaos —Buck sputtering, shoving wet hair from his face, Eddie laughing so hard his stomach hurt, Christopher nearly falling over from how hard he was laughing on the sand.
“Feel the energy flowing through you now?” Eddie teased.
Buck stuck out his tongue, water dripping down his forehead, and began making his way toward him
“Oh yeah, totally,” he deadpanned. “Especially the part where you body-slammed me into the Pacific.”
Eddie snorted, and Buck started laughing —really laughing, loud and bright, head tilted back, sun painting him gold.
And Eddie, for the first time in days, felt something he hadn’t in years —light. Weightless. Loved. Free.
That night, with the three of them squeezed into Buck’s apartment, things finally seemed to settle.
The lights were dim, the city quiet behind the closed curtains, and nothing out of the ordinary had happened in hours. Eddie could almost believe the so-called curse was lifting. Or maybe he was just too tired to be looking for signs of disaster. Either way, there was peace —and he clung to it like a lifeline.
Buck was still moving around the living room, gently adjusting Christopher on the couch. The blankets were tucked up beneath his chin, his lashes soft against his cheeks, and the TV played one of those safe, PG-rated movies Chris liked falling asleep to.
Eddie, in the kitchen, let warm water run over his fingers as he washed the remaining dishes. His skin felt hot from the water, but it was comforting —normal, something his life hadn’t been for days.
He didn’t hear Buck approach —he only sensed it. The shift in the air behind him, the faintest trace of Buck’s cologne, and then—
Hands. Warm, steady. Settling onto his waist.
"Chris is more asleep than he is awake," Buck whispered against his ear.
The words were soft, almost amused —but they were too close. Eddie jerked slightly, and a cup slipped from his hands, shattering against the sink and floor.
They both froze. Eddie’s heart drummed. Buck turned instinctively to Christopher, checking. The boy didn’t move —didn’t wake— just let out a soft snore that echoed in the quiet apartment.
Eddie exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
"You know, Eds," Buck said, still close enough that Eddie could feel his breath on his neck.
“I don’t want to know, Buck,” Eddie muttered quickly, eyes fixed on the broken glass scattered among dish soap and suds.
Buck didn’t move away. Eddie could feel the faint curve of his smile against his hair. His chest, warm and solid, pressed lightly to Eddie’s back.
“I think I know how we can break your curse completely,” Buck whispered.
“Buck, I’m not cursed.” It came out softer than he meant it to —less denial, more plea.
Eddie shut the faucet, wiped his hands with a towel, and turned around. Buck’s hands stayed at his waist, sliding around as Eddie faced him fully. And then he realized —Buck was close. Too close. The kind of close that sent sparks down his spine.
The air shifted. Thickened. Their breaths mingled in the narrow space between their lips.
“We can break it with the classic curse-breaking method,” Buck said, calm but his voice pitched low, almost shy. His fingers tightened a fraction on Eddie’s waist.
“What’s the classic way?” Eddie asked, even though he knew. Of course he knew.
Buck wet his lips, and Eddie’s eyes betrayed him—tracking the motion.
“You know. The formula for every story,” Buck murmured, cheeks tinged pink. “There’s always a scene at the end where someone does… the ultimate act. That gesture that breaks everything —spells, curses, bad luck, emotional self-sabotage… Whatever.”
Eddie’s heart hammered so loudly he wondered if Buck could hear it. Don’t say it. Please say it.
“What act?” he asked anyway, barely above a breath.
“That dramatic, ridiculous, kind of corny act,” Buck said, voice hushed and steady. “The one where two people who care about each other a lot get close, break the tension, defy the universe…”
Eddie snorted, but the sound came out breathless.
“Kiss, Buck. You’re talking about a true love’s kiss.”
Buck froze. His lips pressed together. He shrugged.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No,” Eddie said softly, “but you’re thinking it like that.”
A slow, crooked smile spread across Buck’s face. His gaze flickered from Eddie’s lips to his eyes.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I am thinking it like that. But I said it more beautifully.”
They stood there, suspended in a cocoon of dim kitchen light and soft movie dialogue filtering in from the couch. The air smelled like soap, fresh coffee, and Buck.
“Clearly you’re the one who should do it,” Buck said, gaze sinking to Eddie’s lips again.
“Me?” Eddie blinked. “I think you should kiss me.”
Buck frowned.
“Excuse me? It’s your curse, Eds. Technically, you should start it.”
Eddie laughed under his breath.
“In movies, it’s not the person with the curse who initiates the kiss.”
“This isn’t Disney,” Buck muttered.
“Chris made us learn all the princess songs, Buck,” Eddie countered.
Buck’s eyes widened.
“Well… technically, we are at Disney.”
“As long as none of those songs are playing in the background,” Eddie murmured, stepping closer, his voice quieter, his pulse louder. They were chest to chest now. Eddie tilted his head slightly, lifting his gaze to meet Buck’s.
The playfulness dissolved into something deeper. Warmer. Vulnerable.
“Just… we should do it quickly,” Buck whispered, hands sliding fully around Eddie’s waist. “For science. Breaking patterns. Saving the cups.”
He’s insane, Eddie thought, and I love him. God, I love him.
“You’re completely crazy,” Eddie breathed.
Buck smiled softly and lowered his forehead until it brushed Eddie’s —warm and steady.
“If it works, the curse will be lifted. If not… well, you can blame me forever.”
Screw Disney rules.
Eddie leaned in.
The first kiss was tentative —testing, gentle, almost shy. Their lips brushed, barely pressure, just warmth and a soft exhale shared between them.
Then instinct took over.
The second was deeper. Not rushed—but hungry. Eddie’s fingers slid up into Buck’s hair, tugging lightly at the curls at the base of his neck. Buck made a soft sound —half sigh, half laugh— and pulled Eddie in tighter, his hands firm on Eddie’s waist, anchoring them together.
Everything around them blurred. No curse. No fear. Just lips, breath, and the unmistakable feeling of coming home.
Then, slowly, they eased back into softness. Breathing each other in. Foreheads pressed together, noses brushing gently.
Eddie’s eyes fluttered open to find Buck staring at him —flushed cheeks, kiss-reddened lips, pupils blown with something Eddie didn’t dare name out loud.
“Do you feel less cursed?” Buck asked softly.
Eddie took him in —every detail. The freckles. The tenderness. The way his heart felt too big for his chest.
“Yeah… definitely,” Eddie murmured, leaning in again for a featherlight kiss. “But I think you’re the one who’s haunted now.”
Buck raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh yeah? With what?”
Eddie smiled. Soft. Honest. Full.
“With me.”