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“Buck, no.”
Eddie doesn’t say it the moment he sees the sign taped to the wall of the coffee shop —no, that would’ve been too easy. He says it when he catches the look on Buck’s face.
That look.
The one that means trouble wrapped in sunshine.
They’d chosen this café because it had been too long since they’d actually sat down alone. No calls, no firehouse, no Christopher’s homework waiting on the table. Just coffee, maybe a pastry or two, and time to breathe.
It was supposed to be simple.
Buck had found the place on Instagram —of course he had— because it had neon pumpkin signs and cinnamon foam art and probably a thousand hashtags attached to it. And now, here they were: two grown men in a café that smelled like sugar and nutmeg and childhood memories someone bottled for profit.
Eddie’s got his cup halfway to his lips —a swirl of “Halloween flavors,” as the sign proudly claimed— when the inevitable happens.
That poster.
That damn poster.
And Buck’s face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning.
Eddie’s already shaking his head, slow and resigned, even before Buck opens his mouth. There’s weight in his eyes when he says it, the kind that comes from years of knowing exactly how this ends, but still —it’s Buck. And Eddie is, unfortunately, weak when it comes to Buck.
“Come on, Eds, you can’t say no,” Buck says, already halfway out of his chair, tugging the flyer off the wall with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever. A bit of paint comes off with the tape, but Buck doesn’t even notice. “It’s for the kids! They need volunteers for the Spring Festival!”
“Buck, what’s a festival?” Eddie asks dryly, setting his mug down with a small thud. He crosses his arms and leans back, his entire body language screaming caution. “And what exactly would we have to do?”
And that’s it —that’s the exact moment Buck knows he’s won. Because Eddie’s asking questions now, and that means he’s already halfway to yes.
Buck grins wider, that dangerous, heart-melting grin that transforms him —makes him look softer, younger, like the world hasn’t asked so much of him yet.
He taps the flyer, reading it out loud.
“It says here there’ll be booths, balloons, maybe a petting zoo, face painting, a concert—” He looks up again, eyes bright. “Just fun stuff, Eds.”
“Animals,” Eddie repeats slowly, suspiciously, as if saying the word might summon chaos. “As in live animals?”
“Yeah, probably,” Buck replies, tone casual but eyes wide —that same pleading look Chris uses when he wants something but knows Eddie might say no.
“Probably,” Eddie echoes, sighing like a man who’s seen the future and didn’t like it. He tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and mutters under his breath, “That word doesn’t sound fun, Buck.”
In his head, his own voice answers him —dry, resigned, familiar.
You’re a softie, Diaz. Stop pretending. You’ll say yes because it’s Buck, and because when he smiles like that, you don’t know how to say no.
Eddie opens his eyes again, and Buck’s still looking at him —hopeful, earnest, ridiculously beautiful in that sunshine sort of way.
“Okay,” Eddie whispers finally, like the word’s been dragged out of him by gravity itself. “Let’s volunteer at the Spring Festival.”
The grin that breaks across Buck’s face could light up Los Angeles.
“It’ll be easy,” Buck says quickly, reaching across the table to grab Eddie’s hand. “Just a couple hours. Maybe we’ll help with registration, or guide kids to the booths. Then Chris shows up, we hang out, and go home.”
Eddie tries —really tries— not to melt. But Buck’s thumb brushes his knuckles, warm and gentle, and that’s it. The fight’s over.
He uncrosses his arms, lets himself squeeze Buck’s hand back, just once.
And for a few seconds —just a few— he lets himself look at Buck, really look at him, the way you do when the world slows down.
The noise of the café fades. The scent of cinnamon and coffee blurs. All that remains is Buck’s hand in his, and the quiet, dangerous warmth blooming in his chest.
Eddie smiles, small and helpless.
“At least,” he murmurs, voice soft as a confession, “if we end up chasing goats or cleaning up shit, I’ll have someone to blame.”
Buck laughs, bright and loud, and Eddie can’t even pretend he doesn’t love the sound.
Because he does.
He really does.
And just like that —against all logic— Eddie Diaz agrees to a spring festival.
Three days later, there they were —right in the middle of the Los Angeles Spring Festival.
The sun was merciless, the music was too loud, and the air smelled faintly of popcorn, sugar, and… something else. Something more organic.
Because Eddie Diaz, decorated firefighter, single father, fully functional adult, was standing in a tent that smelled faintly of poop.
And, somehow, this was Buck’s fault.
He stood there, surrounded by chaos disguised as joy: a dozen shrieking kids running around with animal-shaped balloons, a pen full of farm creatures that had absolutely no business being in the middle of Los Angeles, and Buck — the human embodiment of enthusiasm— who looked entirely too comfortable amidst the madness.
Eddie was dressed like he had been ripped straight from a country music video, red flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, dark jeans tucked into old boots, a cowboy hat shading his face, and a belt buckle so large it could double as a mirror. The thing had been collecting dust in his closet for years, but Buck had found it, of course he had, and said, “This! This is perfect!”
Now, Eddie was covered in straw. Straw in his hair, in his sleeves, even sticking out of his boot. And standing across from him, a donkey with the most suspiciously intelligent eyes he’d ever seen was staring him down like it knew all his secrets.
“I still don’t understand why…” Eddie muttered, brow furrowed as he glared at the animal. “Why does the donkey have a bandana?”
“I don’t know,” Buck said, in the kind of whisper that always carried laughter beneath it. He shrugged, trying to hide his grin. “Maybe it’s part of the rural charm.”
Buck was dressed almost identically —same jeans, same flannel, same ridiculous attempt at cowboy authenticity— except his hat sat slightly askew, because of course it did, and his badge was pinned proudly to his chest.
When Eddie wasn’t looking, Buck reached over and fixed a similar badge to his shirt.
“HAPPY VOLUNTEER,” it read in bright rainbow letters.
Eddie blinked, then looked down at it, then up at Buck. The donkey looked back and snorted, unimpressed. Neither man nor beast seemed particularly convinced about the concept of happiness.
“You have to admit it’s funny,” Buck said, barely containing his laughter as a hen decided his shoulder was the perfect perch.
Eddie’s expression didn’t even twitch.
“Not the word I’d use,” he said, in the driest voice known to humankind —right before the goat beside him began enthusiastically chewing on his sleeve.
The goat bleated, Eddie sighed, and Buck finally burst out laughing.
The “educational pen” —as the sign proudly called it— was somehow both the heart and the disaster zone of the festival. Dozens of children darted between the animals, completely unsupervised, their laughter echoing through the tent. Ducks quacked in unison, chickens strutted like they owned the place, and Buck was trying, valiantly but unsuccessfully, to keep the flock from escaping through the open flap.
Eddie leaned against a fence post, crossing his arms, doing his best impression of calm. He’s chaos, Diaz. Pure chaos with dimples.
And yet —as always— he couldn’t look away.
Everything was going more or less fine. More or less.
Until Buck decided to lift a bucket of water.
He tried.
It might’ve worked, if not for the piglet that chose that exact moment to sprint between his legs.
The bucket tipped. Water splashed. Buck froze. Then there was a gasp, followed by a drenched Buck standing there, soaked from head to toe, looking like a man who had just fought and lost a battle against gravity.
For half a second, the entire tent went quiet.
Then chaos erupted again.
A goat —probably the same one with a personal vendetta against Eddie— seized the opportunity to leap onto a table and start chewing on the clipboard that held the names of the kids in attendance.
Eddie groaned, covering his face with one hand as laughter and squeals surrounded them.
“I told you not to touch anything,” he muttered, voice strained with the kind of patience reserved for saints and exhausted parents.
“It was just water!” Buck protested, still laughing as he wiped his face with his sleeve. “Besides, look —everyone’s fine.”
“Everyone except me,” Eddie said, trying to snatch the half-eaten list from the goat’s mouth while simultaneously avoiding the mud.
The goat jumped down triumphantly. One of the sheep bleated like it was joining in the joke, and somewhere behind them, a kid yelled, “Look! The ducks are eating out of my hand!”
And that’s when Buck laughed —really laughed. The sound broke out of him bright and unrestrained, like sunlight bursting through clouds after a storm.
Eddie stopped for a moment. He didn’t mean to. He just… did.
There was something about that laugh —something infectious, something that made the corners of Eddie’s mouth twitch no matter how hard he tried to fight it.
He looked at Buck —hair dripping, shirt clinging to him, eyes sparkling with life—and against all reason, all logic, all the parts of him that liked order and control, Eddie started to laugh too.
At first, it was quiet, just a huff through his nose. Then a low chuckle. Then, finally, it rolled out of him, warm and genuine, until he was laughing so hard he had to rest a hand on Buck’s shoulder to steady himself.
Buck turned to him, still grinning, eyes wide with that kind of boyish joy that Eddie had only seen in glimpses —those rare moments when Buck forgot how much he’d lost.
“See?” Buck said breathlessly, pointing to the chaos around them. “We’re naturals.”
Eddie shook his head, still chuckling.
“You’re something, Buck.”
And as Buck laughed again, Eddie found himself thinking —yeah, you are something. Something dangerous. Something good.
And then, just as quickly, he shoved the thought away, because the goat had found his hat, and chaos waited for no man.
By the time the next group of children arrived, the energy in the tent had shifted —not lessened, just changed.
The first group had been a whirlwind: shouting, running, the kind of barely contained chaos that made Eddie wonder if volunteering should come with hazard pay. But these kids —these tiny, wide-eyed creatures barely out of toddlerhood— brought a different kind of noise. Softer. Higher-pitched. Sticky-fingered.
The kind that didn’t just test your patience but tugged, unexpectedly, at something warm and unguarded inside your chest.
They were younger, but they moved with the same unrelenting enthusiasm as a battalion of sugar-fueled soldiers. Their laughter filled every corner, their curiosity boundless, their questions relentless.
Somehow, in the middle of all that, Buck had acquired a duck.
Not metaphorically —literally.
The bird sat perched on his shoulder like a pirate’s companion, its tiny webbed feet gripping his damp flannel as if claiming territory. Buck looked far too comfortable with the arrangement, turning his head slightly every now and then so the duck wouldn’t peck at his ear.
Eddie, meanwhile, had ended up sitting cross-legged on a pile of hay with a toddler in his lap.
The boy couldn’t have been more than two, maybe three. He had chubby hands and wild curls, and he was holding a black rabbit against his chest with the kind of gentle reverence only very small children and the truly kind-hearted possess. The bunny’s nose twitched, the child hummed softly, and somehow the chaos of the festival seemed to fade into something quieter.
Eddie’s large hands rested awkwardly on the kid’s sides, steady but cautious —like he was afraid to break the spell.
“This,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, “is the opposite of fun.”
But the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Just slightly.
Buck noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed.
“Admit you’re enjoying this,” Buck said softly, stepping closer, his voice threaded with that teasing warmth that could pull a smile out of Eddie even on his worst days.
He carefully removed the duck from his shoulder, setting it on the ground where it waddled indignantly away, and then looked back at Eddie —really looked at him— his grin softening into something gentler.
“I’m not,” Eddie replied automatically, rolling his eyes, though the movement lacked its usual sharpness.
“You are,” Buck countered, grinning as he shook his head. “You totally are.”
Eddie turned his gaze toward him —slowly, deliberately. The kind of look that said I can’t stand you, but also the kind that lingered a beat too long to sell the lie.
Buck’s grin widened, because he could read him. He always could. Still slightly soaked from the earlier water fiasco, Buck had a wet lock of hair clinging to his forehead, his flannel sticking to his arms, his name tag half peeled off. He looked like a mess. A walking, breathing disaster.
And yet —God help him— Eddie thought he’d never seen anyone look more at home.
He wanted to say something, anything, to break whatever was happening in his chest, but the toddler shifted then, the little head pressing sleepily against Eddie’s chest, the rabbit still nestled in tiny arms. Eddie froze, the warmth of that small, trusting weight anchoring him.
The laughter and chatter of the festival blurred into the background —the world outside the tent became distant, almost unreal.
Buck crouched in front of him, elbows on his knees, watching him quietly now. That smile of his had changed; it wasn’t teasing anymore. It was something smaller, steadier —something that made Eddie’s stomach twist.
“You’re good with kids,” Buck murmured, his voice almost swallowed by the sound of a goat bleating somewhere behind them. “Like… really good.”
Eddie exhaled through his nose, trying for nonchalance, though his chest felt too tight.
“Yeah, well, practice.”
Buck tilted his head, still smiling.
“Doesn’t look like practice. Looks like instinct.”
Eddie didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because if he did, the truth would slip out, and he wasn’t ready for that.
So instead, he looked down at the boy in his lap, fingers brushing over the child’s small hand —steady, warm, protective— and muttered, half to himself, Don’t start thinking about what this means.
Buck stood slowly, brushing hay from his knees, still watching him with that infuriating, heart-twisting softness.
And Eddie, still holding the child, still surrounded by noise and feathers and fur, thought —not for the first time— that maybe Buck had ruined him a long time ago.
Because it was impossible to stay closed off around someone who smiled at chaos like it was joy.
By the time the next group of kids arrived, the sun had already dipped lower in the sky, spilling gold through the edges of the tent. The air was heavy with the smell of hay, sugar, and whatever faint, earthy scent came from the pen’s less glamorous inhabitants. Somewhere beyond, a band was playing —bright, clumsy brass and laughter floating on the afternoon breeze.
The children burst in like a wave of unfiltered chaos: tiny sneakers pounding against the grass, small hands reaching out for fur and feathers, their voices rising in a chorus of delight and mischief.
And, in the middle of it all, stood Buck —sleeves rolled up, curls damp again somehow, grin wide enough to break open the whole sky.
Eddie had long given up trying to predict what would happen next.
He was sitting on a bale of hay with a goat asleep on his leg —the animal having decided it was an acceptable substitute for a pillow— while Eddie’s coffee, long forgotten, cooled somewhere nearby. He looked like patience personified, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, but anyone who knew him well —anyone named Buck— would recognize the small, traitorous tug at the corner of his lips.
That was when it happened.
A little girl, no older than five, with pigtails and glitter on her cheeks, approached Buck with the kind of fearless confidence only children possess. Her pink boots were scuffed, her hands sticky from cotton candy, and her eyes were full of that spark —the dangerous kind that mirrored Buck’s exactly.
“Can I ride the sheep?” she asked, looking up at him with a smile that could have made even the most disciplined adult say yes.
Eddie, sensing doom, straightened just a little, mouth already half-open to intervene.
Don’t you dare, Buck. Don’t you—
But Buck was already grinning, enthusiasm radiating off him like sunlight.
“Sure, honey—!”
And that was how the disaster began.
The sheep, bless its soul, took one look at the situation, decided against it, and bolted.
With the little girl still on its back.
The tent erupted in chaos. Children shrieked —half fear, half delight— and the adults in nearby booths turned to look.
Buck, eyes wide, froze for a second, then sprinted after them, yelling, “Wait— no, that’s a terrible idea!” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence as he tried to keep up with the creature zigzagging between hay bales and startled ducks.
The girl was laughing hysterically, her tiny hands clutching the sheep’s wool, her joy completely unbothered by Buck’s panic.
And Eddie —Eddie Diaz, master of composure, image of stoicism— just sat there.
Arms crossed. Goat still sleeping on his leg. Watching his best friend run in frantic circles after a runaway sheep and a delighted little girl, both leaving chaos in their wake.
Outwardly, he looked unimpressed, the picture of weary resignation. His jaw was tight, his brows drawn, his posture screaming I told you so.
But inside—
Inside, he was gone. Completely undone.
He felt the warmth rise in his chest, quiet and unstoppable, spreading like sunlight breaking through clouds. His lips twitched despite himself, his heart thudded a little faster, and his mind —traitorous thing— whispered what he’d been denying for far too long.
God, you’re crazy.
Buck tripped on a bucket, nearly fell, then kept running, determined and laughing, because of course he was laughing. His voice carried across the pen, full of life, full of joy, as if every moment —even this one— was worth burning bright for.
You’re crazy, Eddie thought again, his chest tight with something that hurt and healed at the same time. You’re crazy, and I love you.
The words echoed silently in his head, too loud, too real.
I love you more than I could ever love.
And for a moment, Eddie let himself feel it. Just a breath —one heartbeat suspended between laughter and truth.
Then the sheep finally stopped, the girl slid safely to the ground, triumphant, and Buck lifted her into the air like a hero returning from battle. The crowd of children cheered.
Eddie exhaled, shaking his head slowly, but the smile stayed.
He didn’t even try to hide it anymore.
Because there was no hiding from Buck —not from the light he carried, not from the chaos he brought, and definitely not from the way Eddie’s heart always, always, ran right after him.
By mid-afternoon, the chaos had mellowed into something gentler —the kind of soft fatigue that comes after hours of laughter and spilled water and far too many near escapes. The light filtering through the canvas of the tent had turned golden, dust motes floating lazily in the air like suspended sparks. The festival outside was still alive —distant music, chatter, and the faint scent of caramel and popcorn drifting in.
And then, Eddie heard it —the familiar, bright voice that cut through everything else.
“Dad! Bucky!”
Christopher.
Eddie’s head snapped up just in time to see his son crossing the uneven grass with Carla beside him, his crutches tapping rhythmically against the ground. His face was pure sunshine —wide grin, eyes shining, cheeks flushed from the excitement of it all.
Carla, always patient and steady, smiled as she signed Chris’s name on the list and crouched to help him leave his crutches by the entrance. She said something softly to him —something Eddie couldn’t quite catch— but Chris was already focused on the pen, his gaze fixed on the scene before him.
And, honestly, Eddie couldn’t blame him.
He and Buck looked ridiculous.
Covered in straw and dirt, their shirts half untucked, their name badges crooked, surrounded by a herd of animals that seemed entirely too pleased with themselves. One goat was chewing on the hem of Buck’s jeans, another was nestled comfortably on Eddie’s lap as if it had paid rent there. A chicken strutted by like it owned the place.
Chris burst into laughter the second he took it all in.
“You guys look like farmers!”
Eddie, still sitting cross-legged on the hay, sighed theatrically and lifted his gaze toward his son.
“Chris,” he said in his most serious tone, “your father has been kidnapped by the livestock.”
Chris giggled, his shoulders shaking as he made his way toward the pen, reaching out to pet one of the sheep. His joy —simple and infectious— filled every empty corner of the space. Eddie couldn’t stop smiling even if he tried.
And that was when it happened. Again.
Buck, in his eternal optimism, grabbed another bucket of water for the animals. Eddie watched him with mild suspicion —the kind that comes from knowing exactly how this story ends.
“Careful,” Eddie warned. But Buck was already halfway to the trough, that boyish grin on his face, sleeves rolled up, water sloshing dangerously with every step.
The goat on Eddie’s lap perked its head, ears twitching. It gave a small snort, as if offended that Buck was stealing its thunder, and then —it bolted.
Straight after him.
“Wait— no, no, no—” Buck’s voice cracked as he tried to dodge, but it was too late. The goat collided with his leg, the bucket tilted, and the inevitable cascade followed.
Cold water. Everywhere.
Buck froze, standing in a small puddle of his own creation, dripping from hair to boots.
“Oh no… no, no, no…” he whispered, his breath hitching as the chill set in. The words came out half-groan, half-laugh, his voice trembling as he looked down at himself, soaked and defeated.
For a moment, everything went still.
Even the animals paused, as if holding their breath.
And then Christopher exploded into laughter —loud, bright, completely unrestrained. He threw his head back and fell into the straw, laughing so hard no sound came out for a second.
That was all it took.
Buck looked at him, eyes crinkling, and then he started laughing too —big, full-bodied laughter that shook through him, pulling at every muscle until he had to slump down beside Chris. They were a tangle of joy and hay and damp shirts, and when Chris’s laughter finally broke into hiccups, he leaned into Buck, resting his head against his shoulder.
Eddie just… watched.
Something in his chest tightened —that quiet, familiar ache that came every time he saw them together like that. Buck’s arm automatically went around Christopher’s back, his fingers brushing gently through the boy’s hair as he let out a breathless, “Okay. Maybe it wasn’t as funny as I thought.”
Eddie chuckled, shaking his head. He wanted to scold them, to say something about responsibility or boundaries or wet clothes —but his throat was thick with warmth instead.
He walked over, crouching down beside them, his lips curving into a smile he didn’t bother to hide.
“That’s not the word I’d use,” he said softly, tilting his head, voice touched with laughter. “But it’s certainly the image I’ll remember when I think about this day.”
Buck turned to look at him then —really looked. His grin faltered just enough for something else to peek through. Something quieter.
Their eyes met over Christopher’s head, over the chaos and the laughter and the sunlight spilling through the tent flaps.
And there it was again —that thing neither of them had the courage to name.
The thing that sat between them in every silence, every laugh, every touch that lingered just a moment too long.
Eddie felt it rise in his chest like a confession, like a truth he’d already said a hundred times without words.
You’re ridiculous. You’re good. You’re home.
Buck smiled again —small, knowing, almost shy— and Eddie’s heart did that familiar, dangerous thing where it stuttered before catching up.
Outside, the band struck up another cheerful tune. Inside, the air was full of straw and laughter and unspoken things that felt almost like love.
The sky was melting into violet. That soft hour between day and night when everything feels suspended —the light tender, the air cooling, the world exhaling after too much laughter. The festival had begun to thin out, and the sounds of the day —the music, the chatter, the bursts of children’s giggles— faded into something gentler.
The last song from the children’s concert lingered like an echo, the melody carried away by the breeze. Parents moved slowly now —some carrying sleeping toddlers whose sticky fingers clung to half-eaten candy, others dragging tired, whimpering kids who didn’t want the magic to end. A few pre-teens trailed behind, pretending they were too old to care, though their flushed cheeks betrayed how much they’d enjoyed it all.
And then there was them.
Eddie and Buck collapsed almost in unison onto the straw, the weight of the day pulling them down together. They sat shoulder to shoulder, backs pressed against the wooden fence that framed the small petting pen. The straw crackled beneath them, it smelled faintly of earth and sunlight and something warm that Eddie couldn’t name.
Christopher was a few feet away, cross-legged on the ground, whispering to a rabbit in that tender, patient voice that always made Eddie’s chest tighten. The boy’s fingers stroked the animal’s fur in small circles, the way he used to touch Eddie’s arm when he was little and wanted reassurance.
Eddie turned his head, eyes drawn —as always— to Buck.
The light hit Buck’s face softly, washing him in gold and lilac. His features had relaxed completely, his usual restless energy replaced by a kind of peace Eddie rarely saw outside moments like this. The faintest smile lingered on his lips, and something about it —the quiet contentment, the simplicity— tugged at Eddie’s heart.
Buck’s voice broke the silence, low and teasing, but not without warmth.
“Admit it,” he said, still looking ahead, his hand drifting casually to rest on Eddie’s thigh. “You had fun.”
Eddie made a show of thinking, letting out a thoughtful hum.
He looked away toward the horizon, pretending to weigh the day like a man forced into confession. But then —inevitably— his gaze slipped back to Buck, drawn by something he couldn’t seem to resist.
“I had fun…” he murmured, his voice low, betraying more honesty than he meant to. Buck’s face lit up, pure joy cracking through the calm, and Eddie had to look away before he gave too much away. He shook his head, smirking faintly. “Somewhat.”
Buck laughed softly, a sound that seemed to hum against Eddie’s skin.
“Yeah. I had fun too… Somewhat.”
The world settled again, wrapped in a quiet that felt earned.
The soft sounds of the festival —distant chatter, a stray laugh, a closing gate— blended into the slow rhythm of animals settling down for the evening. A goat wandered toward them, hooves crunching over straw. It nudged Eddie’s arm before curling up beside him, letting out a tired little sigh that almost sounded human.
Eddie smiled at the creature’s audacity, the way it rested its head on his leg like it belonged there.
Then came Christopher’s voice, gentle and curious:
“Can we keep the goat?”
He shuffled over, dragging himself carefully until he was close enough for Buck to reach out and help him sit. The little boy leaned comfortably against Buck’s chest, still petting the goat, completely oblivious to the impossibility of his request.
Eddie opened his mouth, already preparing the inevitable no —the one that would come with a patient explanation and a promise of maybe-someday, followed by that irresistible pout and those big blue eyes that could undo him in seconds.
But, as always, Buck beat him to it.
“We could call her Goatina Buckley-Diaz!” Buck announced, his grin as bright and reckless as ever. He rested his cheek against Christopher’s curls and reached out to pet the goat’s head too. “Come on, Eds, maybe we can make use of the yard.”
Eddie turned toward him, ready with a sarcastic retort —something dry, something sensible.
But when he saw Buck’s face —the excitement there, the way his smile softened when he looked at Chris, the absurd tenderness that lived in everything he did —the words got lost somewhere in his throat.
He blinked, slowly, trying to anchor himself.
Of course we can.
Because it’s you. Because with you, everything feels easier, lighter, possible. Even when it makes no sense. Especially then.
The thought made him laugh —quietly, helplessly— the kind of laugh that only came when he let himself feel too much.
He shook his head and finally gave in, letting the tension slip out of his shoulders. Then, without thinking too hard about it, he leaned sideways, resting his head on Buck’s shoulder.
The world stilled around them —the fading light, the hum of voices, the soft breath of the goat at his side.
Buck didn’t move, didn’t speak, just let his hand fall lightly on Eddie’s knee. Their shoulders pressed together, warm through the fabric, and for the first time all day, Eddie let himself close his eyes.
Just for a moment.
He could feel the rise and fall of Buck’s breath, hear Christopher’s gentle whisper to the goat, smell the faint mix of hay and Buck’s cologne. And under all of it, that steady heartbeat that didn’t belong to him —but somehow always felt like home.
The three of them walked slowly toward the truck, shoes crunching over the gravel, leaving behind the barn that still echoed faintly with the day’s laughter.
They had said goodbye to Goatina with promises whispered between giggles. Promises that Eddie knew, deep down, he wouldn’t be able to keep.
They didn’t have the space for a goat, no matter how sweet she looked with that ridiculous bandana Buck had insisted on tying around her neck.
Still, Eddie hadn’t had the heart to say it out loud. Not when Chris’s small hand had been resting over Goatina’s soft fur, or when Buck’s eyes had flicked toward him with that hopeful spark that said just play along.
So he did.
Now, Christopher walked a few steps ahead of them, his crutches tapping rhythmically against the dirt, his curls catching the last of the sunlight. His energy, somehow, hadn’t waned —he was still animatedly talking to himself about rabbits and goats and how next time, he was going to help “train” them. Eddie couldn’t help but smile at the sound.
He felt Buck’s shoulder brush against his. Once, twice, then again —not deliberate, but steady. Familiar. The kind of closeness that didn’t need to be named.
Eddie sighed, the kind that carries the whole day inside it —the laughter, the chaos, the warmth that refused to fade. He bit the inside of his lip, debating for a second.
“It was fun, you know?” He said softly.
His voice came out rougher than he intended, quieter too, as if the truth in it might startle him. He glanced at Buck, who was walking beside him, hands stuffed into his pockets, the corner of his mouth twitching like he already knew what was coming.
“Being with you made it all so much better,” Eddie finished, the words coming out in a low exhale, almost carried away by the breeze.
Buck didn’t answer right away.
He just smiled —that wide, devastatingly open smile that always made Eddie’s chest ache. Without saying a word, he shifted his arm slightly and slid his hand next to Eddie’s. His fingers brushed against Eddie’s knuckles before curling around them, firm and deliberate.
The warmth of Buck’s skin hit him first, then the weight of the gesture. The interlacing of fingers was so gentle, so certain, it nearly undid him. Eddie’s heart stuttered.
Buck squeezed their hands together, the motion simple, grounding. His thumb brushed softly against the back of Eddie’s hand.
“Do you think we could do it next year?” he asked, his voice light with laughter, but there was something softer hiding underneath —something almost shy.
He let out a little laugh, looking sideways at Eddie with that dreamy expression that always made him look younger, lighter. Before Eddie could respond, Buck leaned forward just slightly, pressing a fleeting kiss to their joined hands. The touch was small, almost imperceptible —but it set something ablaze beneath Eddie’s ribs.
Eddie blinked, his throat tight, but the smile tugged at his lips anyway.
He swallowed the rush of emotion and murmured, “I’d say no…” His voice softened, teasing around the edges, “…but if you wear those pants again, I might change my mind.”
That earned him a laugh —a real, full one. Buck threw his head back, and Eddie felt the sound vibrate through him, contagious and impossible to resist. He laughed too, shaking his head, their joined hands swinging lightly between them.
By the time they reached the truck, the night had fully claimed the sky. The fairgrounds behind them were now just clusters of fading light and distant murmurs. Christopher had climbed up into the back seat, already chattering about the next festival, his voice punctuated by small yawns.
Eddie paused by the passenger side, still holding Buck’s hand.
Even when I’m out of my element, even when I’m surrounded by goats and chaos and everything I swore I hated…
He glanced at Buck, who was smiling at him —tired, straw in his hair, shirt still faintly damp from earlier— and felt that stupid, helpless tug in his chest.
I wouldn’t change a single thing.
Not the laughter. Not the mess. Not the way Buck’s fingers still lingered between his.
Not when he was walking home holding Buck’s hand.
Not when Christopher’s smile glowed in the rearview mirror.
Not when the world finally felt simple —just for a moment— because Buck was beside him.
And if, when they got home, the air between them grew quieter, closer, if Eddie thought maybe tonight he’d stop overthinking and finally kiss him —well, that was between him, the stars, and the soft hum of Buck’s laughter still echoing in his bones.