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Eddie had expected everything when Buck asked him to go with him to Hershey to “get some things.”
Everything —except this.
He’d asked, of course.
Pressed, prodded, even tried bribing Buck with coffee, kisses and that grin he could never resist. But Buck had only smiled that infuriatingly charming, tight-lipped smile of his and said it was “absolutely necessary.” Nothing more. Nothing less. Which meant it was probably something that hurt.
So, yes. Eddie had expected to see the Buckleys again —to stand on that pristine porch and watch Margaret’s eyes go cold the moment she realized her son was at her door. He’d expected the polite tension, the clipped words disguised as concern, the backhanded comments about Maddie, about Chim, about anything they could sink their claws into just to remind Buck that he’d never been enough for them.
He’d even expected to be ignored. Dismissed as a stranger with no right to stand beside Buck in that house full of ghosts.
What he hadn’t expected was the silence.
No car in the driveway. No light behind the lace curtains. Just a note taped to the front door and the eerie stillness of an empty house.
Eddie stared at the paper —white, crisp, and far too cheerful against the weathered wood. The handwriting was neat. Elegant. A “Back in a couple of days” written with the kind of deliberate care that made Eddie’s jaw tighten. It wasn’t an apology. It was mockery. A reminder that even their absence was tidy, intentional, and cruelly well-timed.
He hugged his arms around himself, the cold wind slicing through his hoodie and jacket like it had a personal grudge against him. The Pennsylvania chill seeped into his bones, biting at his fingers, his nose, his very breath. Every exhale came out as a soft cloud of steam that immediately vanished into the air.
‘God, how the hell did Buck grow up in this?’
“Are they really not there?” Eddie asked finally, turning to Buck.
Buck stood just a few feet away, his head tilted down as he looked at the note again, as if hoping the words would change. He looked heartbreakingly good, even bundled up —the hoodie layered under his jacket, the beanie barely containing the soft curls Eddie loved running his fingers through. His cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, his breath steady but sharp.
“Nope,” Buck murmured, voice quiet, brittle at the edges.
Eddie didn’t miss the way it trembled.
He could hear the ache tucked between those four letters —the disappointment that shouldn’t have existed but still did, because no matter how many times you told yourself you didn’t need your parents, a part of you always hoped they’d want you anyway.
Without saying another word, Buck bent down, fingers brushing aside a few loose stones until he found a small metal box. He opened it, revealing a spare key inside. His hands moved on instinct, familiar and practiced, like his body still remembered how to come home even if his heart had forgotten.
The door creaked open. The air inside was stale and cold, untouched for days, maybe weeks. But it was warmer than the wind. Buck reached out without thinking, a gentle hand on Eddie’s waist, guiding him through the threshold.
The moment the heater’s hum filled the silence, Eddie sighed in relief, warmth washing over his face like a blessing. He began shedding layers, jacket first, then hoodie, until he was down to just his worn Henley. His skin prickled as it adjusted to the change in temperature.
He dropped his shoes next to Buck’s, noticing how Buck carefully hung his own hoodie to the side before stretching, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. Eddie’s breath caught. The domesticity of it all —the quiet, the warmth, the ghost of laughter that could have been— hit him harder than expected.
“What did we come for?” Eddie asked, crossing the small distance between them and wrapping his arms around Buck’s waist. He did it to warm himself, sure, but mostly because he just needed to hold him —to remind him that someone did show up.
“My birth certificate,” Buck said softly, his voice muffled as he rested his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. “And any other similar documents.”
He let out a sigh that trembled more than the last, then buried his face in Eddie’s hair, inhaling deeply. The scent of him —soap, skin, something faintly metallic from the cold air— seemed to anchor him.
“Afterward... I don’t know. Depending on what time we finish, we could go to a hotel or find a red-eye flight. Which would you prefer?”
Eddie shrugged lightly, leaning into him. The warmth radiating from Buck was a balm, slow and steady, thawing every frozen edge.
“Do you want to spend more time here than necessary?” Eddie asked.
Buck made a small sound —something between a hum and a sigh— that could have meant anything.
Eddie smiled faintly.
“If you want to show me the places where you used to hang like a monkey, I wouldn’t complain. Even in this devilish cold.”
Buck laughed softly, the sound vibrating through his chest, and pressed a kiss to Eddie’s forehead.
“Maybe we can come back in the summer,” he murmured, “with Chris. So I can show you both around... maybe go to the theme park.”
Eddie melted right there.
Because even after eight years —two of them as a couple, the rest spent circling each other like gravity— Buck never said I when he meant us. He always included Christopher in every dream, every plan, every someday.
“I like that,” Eddie whispered, brushing his nose against Buck’s. The kiss that followed was soft, unhurried, the kind that said we’ve got time now. When they pulled apart, Eddie smiled. “Now let’s go look for those documents.”
The two of them worked in sync, wordlessly at times, the easy rhythm of years together carrying them through. Buck pointed out the places where he thought the documents might be —his voice soft but certain, each direction threaded with memory— and they divided the work without needing to say who’d handle what.
They started with Buck’s old room.
Eddie pushed the door open first, his hand brushing against the frame as if asking permission to enter. The air inside was stale, cold, and faintly scented of dust and something older —like the echo of childhood that refused to fade completely.
The room was smaller than Eddie had expected. Maybe because he always imagined it larger, the way Buck’s stories painted it —like a world of scraped knees and restless nights, of drawings taped to the walls and dreams that never fit within them. But what greeted him now was mostly emptiness. The walls were bare, the shelves half-empty, and the bed covered by a neatly folded quilt that didn’t look like it had been touched in years.
They found a scarf, Buck's school colors still bright despite the years, and a few scattered memoirs: a journal with no entries, a trophy from some long-forgotten school event, and a photograph turned face-down in a drawer. Eddie didn’t turn it over. Some ghosts weren’t ready to be looked at.
Next came the library —Margaret’s domain, if Buck’s stories were anything to go by. The shelves loomed high and heavy, each one weighed down by hardcovers and dust jackets. Buck ran his fingers along the spines reverently, as if touching a piece of his past that hadn’t betrayed him.
“These were my friends,” Buck said with a soft, crooked smile. “When my head wouldn’t shut up at night. When I couldn’t sleep, I’d sneak in here and just... read. Anything. Everything.”
Eddie watched him, the way his blue eyes lit up despite the cold, the way his voice softened around the word friends. He didn’t interrupt. Some memories didn’t need commentary; they just needed witness.
Outside, the weather turned.
The first flakes of snow had been gentle when they’d arrived, soft whispers against the windows, but now the storm had teeth. The wind howled around the corners of the house, rattling the panes as if demanding to be let in. The blizzard blurred the world beyond into a single, blinding sheet of white. They couldn’t see more than a few feet past the glass. The rest had vanished.
Then, with cautious steps and a shared breath, they entered Philip’s office.
The room smelled faintly of tobacco and old paper —time preserved in amber. Everything was exactly where it had probably been for decades: the heavy mahogany desk, the filing cabinets lined up like soldiers, the old leather chair that creaked when Buck brushed past it. The kind of space that demanded order and silence.
They split up again. Buck stood by one of the cabinets, pulling out drawers one by one, methodically sifting through them. Eddie took the desk, kneeling slightly to go through the drawers, hands moving carefully through folders and envelopes. It was all sterile —contracts, property deeds, investment notes. Nothing personal. Nothing that told a story.
Until he found one folder set apart.
Labeled neatly, in Philip’s precise hand: Daniel.
Eddie froze. His throat tightened before he even opened it.
He drew a slow breath and flipped the cover. The folder was divided into sections, each more heartbreaking than the last. The first held the official birth and death certificate— both yellowed slightly at the edges, but the ink still sharp, the words cruelly permanent. Beside it, contracts from the funeral home, the hospital, the cemetery. Every bureaucratic step of grief preserved in paper form.
Eddie ran a finger over Daniel’s name, reading quietly, reverently, and he could feel it —how much this loss had shaped Buck’s entire life, even before he’d been born. The boy who never grew up. The shadow that lingered in every room.
His eyes burned before he even realized tears had gathered there.
“Buck, honey,” he murmured, his voice small, breaking the silence.
He heard the soft scuff of Buck’s shoes before he saw him. Buck turned, that familiar look of concern blooming instantly, and started walking toward him. Eddie wanted to tell him to stop —that maybe he shouldn’t see this— but before he could, the lights flickered once, twice —then went out completely.
The sudden dark swallowed everything.
The hum of the heater died, and in its absence, the cold crept back in like a living thing, crawling under their clothes, wrapping around their bones.
“Shit,” Buck muttered, his voice echoing too loudly in the silence that followed. There was a stumble, then the dull thud of something hitting the floor. “Ow —Shit. Do you have your phone there? I can’t see anything, and mine’s charging downstairs.”
Eddie blinked into the dark, disoriented. He could just make out the shape of Buck somewhere near the desk. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, thumbed it awake, and turned on the flashlight.
The narrow beam sliced through the darkness —and there he was.
Buck, sitting on a chair, rubbing at his calf with the most pitiful pout Eddie had ever seen. His curls were sticking out from under the beanie, his cheeks flushed from cold and embarrassment.
Eddie couldn’t help it, a laugh escaped before he could stop it.
“What happened?”
Buck shot him a look —half glare, half amused disbelief.
“I know you got hit, honey,” Eddie said, smiling softly as he angled the light toward him. “I meant the light.”
Buck shrugged, standing up slowly, still rubbing at his leg. He limped toward Eddie with a dramatic sigh before practically draping himself over him where he sat.
“I don’t know,” Buck whispered against Eddie’s neck, his breath warm against chilled skin. “Maybe the storm damaged a generator.”
The words vibrated softly against Eddie’s throat, and he shivered—not from the cold this time.
“We’ll have to light the fire and put our coats back on,” Buck murmured, his tone protective, like it always was when he got that particular brand of worried. “I don’t want you to get sick.”
Eddie nodded, but he didn’t move. Not yet.
He just wrapped his arms around Buck, turned off the flashlight, and let the dark fold around them. The house groaned softly under the weight of the storm, and somewhere far off, the wind moaned through the eaves.
He could feel Buck’s heartbeat against his chest —steady, grounding, achingly alive.
For a moment, Eddie closed his eyes and just breathed him in, willing the sadness to stay away a little longer.
Because the truth was, they both knew what waited once the light came back on: a folder full of loss, a house full of ghosts, and the reminder that Buck had been loved too little, for too long.
And Eddie —Eddie would fight the storm, the cold, the dark itself, if it meant keeping him warm.
No one really notices how quickly warmth disappears —how silence turns sharp, how air becomes a living, breathing thing that cuts through every layer of fabric.
Eddie doesn’t know how long it takes.
Minutes, maybe. Or an eternity.
But eventually, he feels it: the cold creeping in from every corner, like a tide reclaiming the house inch by inch. It seeps through the walls, slides down the windows, curls around his legs, and bites at his fingertips until even the heat of Buck’s body pressed against his own can’t quite fight it off.
He shivers. Once. Then again. The kind of tremor that starts somewhere deep, somewhere the cold has already won.
Buck feels it instantly. Of course he does. He always does.
“Let’s go downstairs, Eds,” he murmurs softly, his voice vibrating against Eddie’s chest. “We’ll have time to check everything again when the power comes back on.”
Eddie hums in quiet agreement, his breath fogging against Buck’s neck. He doesn’t want to move yet —not when Buck’s arms are still around him, when the world feels like it’s holding its breath— but he nods. The moment he does, Buck shifts, pulling back reluctantly.
The sudden loss of warmth makes Eddie ache.
He watches as Buck reaches toward the desk, his hand brushing over the folder Eddie had been reading before everything went dark. The paper looks almost ghostly in the dim light from the street.
“Can I borrow your phone?” Buck asks, his voice low.
Eddie nods wordlessly and hands it over, their fingers brushing for a fraction of a second. Buck’s touch lingers —he always does that, as if saying I’m here without having to speak. Eddie pushes himself up from the chair, stretching out the stiffness from sitting too long in the cold.
He picks up the folder carefully, one hand steady beneath it, the other reaching instinctively for Buck’s. When their fingers meet, Eddie can’t help the small gasp that escapes him.
Buck’s hand is warmer than his own. Not by much, but enough to notice. Enough to make Eddie want to hold on tighter.
He laces their fingers together, feeling Buck’s thumb trace a slow line across the back of his hand. The simple motion makes something inside him unclench.
“What’s that?” Buck asks quietly, angling the light from the phone toward the folder. The beam catches the label in its glow, and Eddie watches the moment Buck reads the name. Watches the way his whole face changes.
“Eds…”
Just that. His name. But it’s full of shock and sorrow and something softer—like awe and grief tangled together.
Eddie swallows hard. His throat feels tight.
“That’s why I called you,” he murmurs. “There are a lot of things, you know? Pictures, drawings…”
His voice catches, and he clears it, forcing himself to continue even though the words feel heavy.
“I-I thought you might like to see it.”
The folder feels impossibly fragile in his hands, as if it might crumble if he holds it too tight. And maybe that’s fitting, Eddie thinks —because it’s not just paper. It’s a life. The remnants of a little boy’s existence, tucked away in a drawer like grief that’s been tidied up and hidden from sight.
And he can’t stop thinking about the cruelty of that. About how someone could love so much and lose so much and then hide it, instead of keeping it close.
He feels Buck’s gaze before he dares to meet it.
Even in the dim light, Eddie can see the shine of unshed tears, the kind that cling stubbornly to the lashes. Gratitude. Pain. Nostalgia. All of it swirls there, unspoken.
Eddie doesn’t say anything else. There’s nothing he can say. So instead, he leans in —slowly, gently— until his cheek rests against Buck’s shoulder. The fabric of Buck’s shirt is soft against his skin, warm from body heat, faintly smelling of smoke and that aftershave he always uses. Eddie presses a soft kiss there, barely more than a whisper.
“Let’s go into the living room,” he murmurs. “Light the fireplace, and watch it… together. Okay?”
For a long moment, Buck doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls against Eddie’s arm, steady but shaky at the edges, like he’s holding back the weight of too many emotions at once. Then, finally, he nods.
“Okay,” he says, his voice almost lost to the storm howling outside.
Eddie feels the squeeze of Buck’s hand, firm and grounding, and he squeezes back.
The floor creaks beneath them as they start down the hall, the beam from Eddie’s phone leading their way through the house. The air is colder down here, but the sound of their steps, the quiet rhythm of their breathing, and the simple fact that they’re together —it’s enough to keep the worst of the chill at bay.
As they walk, Eddie glances down at the folder again. The edges of the paper flutter slightly in the draft from the stairwell, and he wonders what it must’ve been like —the day Daniel’s laughter stopped echoing through this house. The day Buck’s parents decided that silence was easier than remembering.
And for a fleeting second, Eddie imagines Christopher’s name on a folder like that.
He feels his heart stutter, his lungs lock up.
He tightens his grip on Buck’s hand.
‘No,’ he thinks, fiercely. ‘Never. Not him. Not us.’
When they finally step into the living room, the cold meets them head-on, sharp and merciless. The windows tremble under the force of the wind, and the snow outside glows faintly white, lighting the room just enough to make out the shapes of furniture covered in shadows.
Buck lets go of his hand only long enough to crouch in front of the fireplace, setting down Eddie’s phone on the hearth so the light spills across the room in a soft halo. His movements are sure, practiced; Eddie knows this part of him —the caretaker, the man who always fixes things when the world falls apart.
Eddie stands behind him, clutching the folder to his chest. The weight of it feels heavier now, as if the house itself knows what it contains.
Buck strikes a match. The spark flickers, catches, and soon a small flame dances inside the hearth, slowly growing into something steady and warm.
The storm roars on outside, but here —within these four walls, under this fragile glow— it feels almost like a heartbeat.
And when Buck turns back to him, eyes glassy but gentle, Eddie smiles through the ache in his chest and thinks, this is what warmth really is.
They’d made themselves a nest on the living room floor —three blankets spread over the rug, one draped across Eddie’s shoulders, another tucked over their legs, and the third bundled at their feet like an extra layer of armor against the cold that still found its way into the house.
The fireplace crackled softly, the flames slow and steady, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. Shadows flickered across the walls, moving like ghosts that had been waiting for company.
Eddie sat between Buck’s legs, his back pressed firmly against the older man’s chest, wrapped not just in warmth but in the safety of Buck’s arms. He could feel every breath against his spine, every quiet sigh that escaped Buck’s lips. The world beyond the storm could have fallen apart, and he would’ve stayed right there.
Between them, resting across their thighs, lay the binder.
The story of a life that ended before Buck’s had really begun.
“Hey,” Buck murmured, his voice soft with disbelief. “His middle name was Robert.”
He laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that trembles on the edge of a sigh. His fingertips brushed over the letters as if tracing them could make them real, could summon back the boy whose name they spelled.
“And his birthday was two days before mine…”
Eddie smiled faintly, his heart catching at the tenderness in Buck’s tone. He reached up, trailing his fingertips over Buck’s arm in small, absent circles —grounding, comforting. He stored the detail the way he did all the little things Buck shared with him, those random facts that spilled from Buck’s mind whenever he fell down one of his endless Wikipedia rabbit holes.
“You had a couple of birthdays together,” Eddie whispered, leaning back just enough to turn and catch a glimpse of Buck’s profile in the dancing firelight. The soft orange glow kissed his jawline, reflected in his eyes. “Now we know when we can celebrate his life.”
Buck didn’t say anything, just nodded, the motion slow and heavy. He turned the page, but the next document made his breath hitch. His eyes lingered for a second too long before he wordlessly handed it to Eddie, who understood immediately.
Some things didn’t need to be read aloud.
Eddie tucked the death certificate into the top pocket of the binder, careful not to look too closely, and pulled out the last document instead.
“Do you want to know where we can go visit him?” he asked softly, even though he already knew the answer.
Buck’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He nodded once, then hesitated, then nodded again —as if saying yes didn’t make it hurt less, just more real.
“He’s at Pine Hall Cemetery in State College,” Eddie murmured, reading off the form. “That’s… about two hours from here?”
Buck nodded again, slower this time.
“Philip was a professor at Penn State,” he said quietly, his voice rough from disuse or emotion —maybe both. “I guess after what happened to Daniel, he got a transfer to the Harrisburg campus. That’s why we moved here.”
He leaned his head back against the couch, the blanket slipping slightly off his shoulder. His eyes unfocused, gaze lost somewhere in the ceiling.
“I thought they might’ve… cremated him. Kept him close or something. I never thought…” He trailed off, biting down on the rest of the sentence like it burned to say it aloud. Then, after a pause, his voice cracked around a name. “Maddie…?”
The question hung in the air —unfinished, fragile, full of fear he didn’t want to name. Fear that maybe his sister hadn’t known either. That maybe she’d been just as left out of the family grief as he had.
Eddie’s chest tightened.
He wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, that they could rewrite the story, that they could make a new place for Daniel in their own memories —one that wasn’t built on silence.
But instead, he simply said, “I’ll write down the information. Maybe we can stop by on the way home, and then you can talk to Maddie about it.”
Buck’s hand came up to rest over his, warm and trembling. He turned his head just enough to press a kiss against Eddie’s cheek —a soft, grateful thing that made Eddie’s heart ache.
Then Buck reached for the next envelope. His fingers hesitated on the flap.
“Oh…” he breathed out.
Inside were photographs —dozens of them, thick stacks of glossy paper that smelled faintly of dust and time. Eddie didn’t wait, he pulled them out carefully, spreading them across his hands. The first one made his throat close up.
Two children —one boy with messy blond hair and another older girl with familiar eyes— sat on a hospital bed, both grinning widely at a tiny baby cradled between them.
Eddie’s heart stuttered.
“It’s you,” he whispered, his fingers tracing over the image. The baby had that unmistakable red birthmark over his eye, his little mouth parted in what almost looked like a smile, wrapped in a thin hospital blanket. “It’s you.”
Buck’s breath hitched.
He took the photo gently from Eddie’s fingers, staring down at it as though it might vanish if he blinked. His thumb brushed across Daniel’s face, then Maddie’s, then finally his own tiny one.
“We looked so happy,” Buck whispered, voice breaking around the word happy. His lips trembled, and he let out a soft, hollow laugh before passing the photo back.
Eddie took it silently, sliding it to the side of the binder. There wasn’t a single thing he could say that would make this hurt less. Some grief was too old and too deep for language.
They went through the rest slowly, reverently, as if handling something sacred.
Hours passed that way —the storm outside howling, the fire burning low, and the two of them lost in fragments of another lifetime.
There were photos of Daniel teaching a wobbly little Buck how to walk, Maddie crouched in front of them with her arms wide open.
Another showed all three of them in front of a birthday cake —both boys’ names written in messy frosting, the candles mid-flame, smiles too wide for their faces.
Then one with the whole family, even Philip and Margaret, their arms linked, pretending nothing was broken beneath the surface.
Eddie smiled through the ache, pointing at one of Daniel in a hospital gown, sitting up in bed with Buck beside him, the same grin on both their faces. Maddie was beside them, smiling too.
“He looks just like you,” Eddie murmured, and Buck laughed quietly through his tears.
The final photograph stopped them both.
Daniel and Buck again —this time lying side by side on a hospital bed.
Both in little surgical gowns, Buck asleep against Daniel’s shoulder, and Daniel… watching him. His eyes were open, soft and sad, but he was smiling —a kind of peace that only comes when you know you’re running out of time.
The date on the back of the photograph matched the death certificate.
Neither of them spoke. The world seemed to narrow down to the small circle of firelight, to the sound of the storm outside, to the weight of the memory in their hands.
Eddie blinked hard, trying to stop the tears, but they came anyway —hot against his chilled skin. He carefully gathered the photos, slipping them back into the envelope with trembling fingers.
When he turned, Buck was already breaking.
Eddie barely had time to open his arms before Buck fell into them, collapsing against his chest with a strangled sob that tore through the quiet. Buck’s hands fisted in the fabric of Eddie’s hoodie, clutching it like a lifeline, his whole body shaking with the force of everything he’d kept buried for years.
Eddie wrapped himself around him, holding him as tightly as he could, pressing his lips against the side of Buck’s head, whispering nothing words that weren’t meant to fix anything —just to say I’m here.
He could feel Buck’s tears soaking into his shirt, hot trails against the cold air.
And Eddie let him cry. He didn’t count the minutes. Didn’t care about the storm or the dying fire. He just held him, strong and steady, until the sobs turned to shivers and the shivers turned to silence.
When Buck finally lifted his head, his eyes were red, his lashes clumped together. But there was something lighter in his expression —a kind of fragile peace. He smiled, small and crooked.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Eddie cupped his cheeks, thumbs brushing away the last traces of tears. He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He just leaned in and kissed him —soft, slow, lingering— the kind of kiss that says you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.
Then he pulled him close again, and together, in the flickering light of the dying fire, they stayed there —two men holding the memory of a boy who’d never been forgotten.
At the very end of the folder —tucked beneath a few faded drawings in crayon and pencil, the kind only children make with the unfiltered joy of being alive— they found it.
There were rockets and stick figures, a sun with uneven rays, a crooked house, and two names scrawled in the corner in Daniel’s messy handwriting: Daniel + Evan.
The final page held a couple more photos: Daniel with his arm thrown carelessly over Buck’s shoulders, Buck with the same smile, the same tilt of the head, the same spark in his eyes. Eddie could see it clearly —the echo between them, the shared features that weren’t about bone structure but about light.
And then, underneath all of it, was what Buck had been searching for. His own birth certificate, edges yellowed with time, creased as if it had been folded and unfolded too many times before being hidden away.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. There was too much in the air —something unspoken and almost unbearable. The silence wasn’t empty, it was full.
Eddie could feel the thought lingering between them, unvoiced but heavy: Daniel and Buck’s lives had been so intertwined that their parents hadn’t even taken the time —or maybe hadn’t had the heart— to separate them, even in death.
He swallowed hard. He didn’t say it. Neither did Buck. They didn’t have to.
Buck’s fingers trembled slightly as he lifted the document from the folder, and just then, the first threads of morning light began to slip through the curtains. The world outside was no longer wrapped in night but in that soft gray glow that comes before sunrise, when everything feels hushed, like the universe itself is still half-asleep.
As if on cue, the house woke with them. The heater hummed back to life with a low, comforting purr, the kind of sound that vibrates faintly through the floorboards. The lights flickered on automatically, washing the room in warm yellow that pushed the shadows away.
Buck blinked against it, squinting at the paper in his hands, his curls a wild halo in the glow. Eddie watched him —watched the way his expression shifted between disbelief and something gentler, something like closure.
For a moment, Eddie thought of how strange it was that this was what healing looked like —not grand or loud, but quiet, almost fragile. Two people sitting in the wreckage of memory, collecting what was left, and deciding to keep living anyway.
They rose slowly, as if afraid that standing might break the fragile spell the night had woven around them. Together they folded the blankets, smoothed out the rug, tucked the sheets back into place. The folder stayed exactly where they had found it, sitting like a small monument on the floor.
Buck slid his birth certificate and the envelope of photos into his backpack, his hands moving with reverence, almost ritualistic.
Eddie picked up the pen and a scrap of paper and wrote a single line in his neat, deliberate handwriting:
"I’ll mail the envelope in a couple of days."
He set it on top of the folder, anchoring it with a corner of the old binder.
No more words were needed.
They stood there for a while, half-awake and heavy-limbed, the kind of exhaustion that’s more emotional than physical settling deep in their bones.
Then, slowly, they began to help each other layer up against the cold. It was instinctive —domestic in the smallest, most intimate way.
Buck looped his old scarf gently around Eddie’s neck, his hands brushing against the stubble on Eddie’s jaw. The fabric was too long, so Buck adjusted it, tugging one end just right before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to the tip of Eddie’s nose.
Eddie let out a quiet laugh, the kind that comes from somewhere deep in the chest.
“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, but his smile said don’t stop.
He reached for Buck’s beanie —the same one that had fallen off at least three times that night— and tugged it over his curls until it sat snugly against his head. Then, as naturally as breathing, he pressed a kiss to each of Buck’s chilled cheeks, his thumbs brushing lightly over the damp traces of where tears had once been.
Buck’s eyes softened, a small, tired smile spreading over his lips.
“Guess we survived the night,” he whispered.
Eddie chuckled, his voice warm despite the cold that still clung to them.
“Barely.”
They stood there for another heartbeat, close enough for their breaths to mingle in the faint morning light, before Buck reached for Eddie’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
And together —two men carrying both memory and morning in their arms— they stepped out of the room, leaving behind the silence, the binder, and the ghosts that had finally been given names.
“Marry me,” Buck whispered.
The words slipped into the frozen morning like a secret carried on misted breath —so quiet that Eddie almost thought he’d imagined them.
They had just stepped outside the Buckley house, the door closing with a low click behind them, sealing away a night that felt both like a lifetime and the soft exhale of a wound finally healing. The world beyond was still —the kind of stillness that only comes after a storm, when snow has swallowed every sound and the air feels suspended between night and day.
The early morning chill bit at Eddie’s cheeks, but his chest… his chest felt warm. Heavy. Alive.
He turned slowly, his boots crunching in the thin crust of snow, breath catching as he looked at Buck —eyes rimmed red from tears and sleeplessness, a few stray curls peeking from under his beanie, a tremor of exhaustion in the hand still holding his. Buck looked wrecked and radiant all at once.
“Marry me,” Buck repeated, a little firmer this time, though his voice trembled like it might shatter if Eddie didn’t answer soon.
Eddie blinked a few times, his heart stuttering in his chest, his brain trying to catch up to the moment. He squeezed Buck’s hand gently, grounding both of them in that tiny, trembling gesture.
“Honey…”
Just one word, but it came out like a breath, full of affection and disbelief and so much love that it felt too small to contain it all.
Buck’s smile was small —almost shy— but there was peace in it, too, the kind that comes after letting go of something that’s haunted you for too long. He let out a long, shaky sigh, fogging the air between them.
“I wanted my birth certificate so we could make the formal request,” he began softly, his voice tender and raw, as if he were afraid the moment might slip away if he spoke too loudly. “I had… I had everything ready. Chris was helping me.”
Eddie felt his heart twist, a quiet laugh catching in his throat. Of course Chris was helping him. That boy would’ve been giddy keeping such a secret.
Buck’s eyes shimmered —not with tears this time, but with something purer. Relief, maybe. Or love finally finding its place to rest.
“But I can’t wait,” Buck whispered. “I—I can’t let this moment pass. Not with what you did to the most painful night of my life.”
Eddie’s chest tightened, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. He could still feel the weight of the night behind them —the photos, the folder, the echoes of a boy who should’ve had a lifetime and didn’t. He’d watched Buck face the ghosts that had been choking him since childhood and come out the other side, not unscathed but whole.
And now, here he was, in the weak morning light, asking Eddie to bind his life to his. Not out of grief. Not out of fear. But out of love.
Eddie smiled, a slow, trembling thing that reached his eyes as he lifted his gloved hand to Buck’s face. The leather brushed against Buck’s chilled skin as his thumb traced the soft curve of his cheek, pausing over that familiar birthmark like it was the answer to every prayer Eddie had never dared to say aloud.
“The answer is yes, love,” Eddie murmured, his voice low but certain, steady in a way that felt like a promise. “In this and every one of my lives.”
He took a small step forward, closing the distance between them until their foreheads touched, until Eddie could feel Buck’s breath warm against his lips.
“Yes,” he repeated, quieter this time —a word spoken into Buck’s skin rather than into the air.
And with the cold of Hershey pressing against their backs, the world around them nothing but snow and silence, they melted into each other’s arms, in a kiss that wasn’t desperate or rushed but slow, anchoring, infinite.
The blizzard could rage again, the wind could howl, the world could freeze over —but there would always be warmth in their chests, enough to outlast it all.
Because love, when it’s real, burns hotter than any fire.
And that morning, in front of the Buckley house, Eddie Diaz finally understood that warmth wasn’t something you found —it was something you built, together.