Archive of Our Own

The city was still rubbing the sleep from its eyes when Eddie turned the key to open Dino & Dad’s Corner. Dawn had barely stretched its fingers across the sky; everything felt hushed, suspended between night and day. 

The rain —thin, stubborn, almost whispering— slid down the rooftops like it had nowhere else to be. It tapped softly against the shop’s glass door, drawing trembling trails that blurred his reflection: hair a little messy, eyes carrying the soft fatigue of someone who dreams too much and sleeps too little, a jaw fighting the weight of a hundred unsaid things. Even so, there was a quiet peace in his face, like routine had stitched itself into his bones.

He stepped inside, the small bell above the door letting out a shy ring, as if waking up at the same time he did. Eddie inhaled deeply, letting that familiar scent of coffee grounds, old paper, and wooden shelves settle into his chest like a good omen.

"Good morning," he murmured to the shop, even though he knew it wouldn’t answer. Though, if he was being honest, some mornings he wished it would —just to tell him he wasn’t the only one carrying a head full of tangled thoughts.

The place was still dark, shadowy, smelling faintly of old books and the memory of yesterday’s coffee. When he flipped the switches, the warm golden bulbs brought the exposed brick to life —those bricks that had seen triumphs, breakdowns, spilled lattes, and more than a few one-sided arguments with the espresso machine.

Eddie smiled. 

This place was home. Not because he owned it, but because every corner felt like a breath he’d been holding for years.

He barely took three steps in before a small, determined hurricane burst through the door behind him.

The bell chimed again, but this time not shy at all —loud, chaotic, almost offended— as Christopher launched himself through the door like a very determined, hyperactive comet. 

He had that particular brand of seven-year-old energy that ignored weather, temperature, and the existence of gravity. His t-shirt was crooked, his hair pointed in three different directions, and his glasses were slightly askew and foggy from the rain.

"Dad! Dad! Did you put the coffee on yet?" Christopher asked, plopping his crutches into their usual stand. He leaned against the counter with the theatrical exhaustion of a man three times his age.

Eddie shot him a look with a raised eyebrow —one of those long-suffering, fatherly looks that said I love you but also, ¿Qué carajos?

He muttered something about Abuela and her Colombian friend teaming up like caffeinated witches, turning every child they met into tiny coffee addicts who could barely spell before they asked for café con leche.

“Of course I put the coffee on,” Eddie said, exaggeratedly offended. “The question is honestly disrespectful at this point, mijo.”

Christopher giggled —that bright, bubbling sound that hit Eddie square in the chest every single time— and leaned over the counter with dramatic seriousness, as if inspecting the mugs himself.

"Abuela has ruined you," he said looking at him directly. "Kids your age should be addicted to chocolate milk, not coffee. I blame her friend Marta. Ever since she came over with that tinto—"

"Dad," Christopher groaned, rolling his eyes in the universal language of children who’ve heard the same story five hundred times.

Eddie ignored him affectionately as he poured the coffee, pushing one cup toward Chris’s usual corner of the shop, right beside the loyalty guardian of the entire establishment: Azul, the stuffed dinosaur whose seams had been repaired more times than Eddie’s —and Abuela’s— own patience.

Azul sat  in his usual seat with the posture of a mall cop who took his job too seriously —smile slightly crooked but persistent, button eyes fixed eternally on the door, and an aura of silent judgment for anyone who dared move him.

Christopher rolled his eyes —a gesture inherited directly from Eddie’s DNA— while Eddie adjusted Azul’s head like he was prepping him for a photoshoot.

“All right, Azul,” Eddie announced, placing the plush’s little arms as if he were crossing them. “You’re in charge today. Watch for customers who don’t read signs. Use force if necessary.”

“I saw him blink once,” Christopher whispered loudly, settling into his beanbag. “I think he knows when the grumpy people come in.”

“He should teach you manners,” Eddie said, ruffling his son’s hair.

“Mm. It’s hot,” he announced after taking his first sip of coffee. “Like, super hot. Like dragon-mouth hot.”

“That’s because it's coffee, genius.”

He shrugged adorably. “Dragons drink coffee, maybe.”

Eddie pointed at him. 

“Don’t start a whole dragon-coffee-lore you’ll force me to read as bedtime stories. I’m warning you.”

Christopher flopped into his beanbag, the comfy crater that served as his command center. He pulled out the graphic novel he was devouring that week —a story about time travellers who befriended dinosaur— and took another sip of his coffee with the seriousness of a man twice his age.

His corner was a universe of its own: low shelves stuffed with dinosaur figurines, little aquatic creatures, crooked art projects from school, a flexible lamp for late nights Eddie didn’t want him to feel alone, and a shaggy rug the color of sea foam.

The door chimed again.

A heavily pregnant woman waddled in, balancing a tray of baked goods that looked like they’d been delivered straight from heaven’s oven. 

“¡Ay, Estefa!” Eddie darted forward, grabbing the tray before she toppled over and guiding her behind the counter. “You shouldn’t be carrying this. You’re practically a human piñata. If you sneeze too hard, the baby might pop out.”

“Exagerado,” Estefa laughed, letting him take the tray. 

Cinnamon bread. Croissants. Chocolate rolls still warm enough to fog the air with their sweetness.

The smell wrapped the whole shop in a hug.

Christopher lifted his head from his book.

“Hi, Estefa! How long ‘til the baby comes out? Is it like… in ten sleeps? Or five sleeps? Or one giant super sleep?”

Estefa rubbed her belly like it contained fireworks and secrets.

“Two weeks, Chris. More or less,” she answered.

Eddie raised an eyebrow at her —the eyebrow, the one that meant Go home, woman, please for the love of God, stop working, before you give birth between my tables.

She caught the look immediately, but she only raised an eyebrow back at him.

“And before you say anything,” she scolded him. “I’ll keep bringing my products until the day this baby decides to pop out. And when I can’t, my sister will. So don’t even try to get rid of me.”

Eddie threw his hands up in surrender, laughing because she had caught him so perfectly.

“I didn’t say a word.”

Christopher gasped dramatically. “Dad said you’re a piñata.”

“I did NOT—” Eddie whirled toward him.

Estefa burst into laughter. “Well, at least fill me with candies first.”

After a few more jokes and a promise to save her a chocolate roll, she waved goodbye, belly first, leaving a trail of cinnamon-scented air behind her.

Silence returned, but it wasn’t empty.

It was soft. Round-edged.

A silence that made the world feel aligned, even if just for a blink.

Outside, the rain kept tickling the windows. Inside, the coffee machine hissed like it was breathing. Pages turned gently under Christopher’s fingers.

Eddie let his hand glide along the counter, feeling every scratch, every stain, every memory embedded in the wood. His mind drifted —because it always drifted when things got too calm.

Sometimes he wondered if this little café was his hiding place or his salvation. If he had opened it to run away from the noises in his head or to finally listen to quieter ones. Maybe it was both.

Maybe he didn’t need to choose.

Maybe that was okay.

And, with that thought in his mind, Eddie felt something inside him loosen, soften, breathe.

He opened the book he had started last night, flipping to a random poem.

The words glowed softly, speaking of a love steady as a lighthouse —a love that didn’t drown when storms hit. Eddie’s chest tightened, a small, quiet wish forming like a knot.

Maybe someday.

The sky outside brightened slightly, though the drizzle persisted, stubborn as ever.

Soon customers would wander in, dripping rain on the floor and apologizing unnecessarily, craving warmth, caffeine, and maybe a little hope.

Maybe the rain would grow heavier.

Maybe the day would become chaotic.

Maybe life would throw something unexpected at him —it usually did.

But right now?

Right now, in that tiny brick sanctuary, with the soft hum of the coffee maker and the small sound of his son giggling at something Azul “said.”

Only warmth existed.

A small corner of the world where mornings began like a poem —accidentally, beautifully, and without asking permission.

The rain that had flirted timidly with the rooftops that morning had now become an all-out assault on the city. 

In barely ten minutes it had transformed from a gentle drizzle into a furious tropical downpour —the kind that makes the windows tremble as if the sky were knocking with both fists, demanding to be let inside. Water ran down the glass in thick, frantic rivers, and every so often a thunderclap rattled the shelves, making even Azul the dinosaur seem to jump in his seat.

Eddie dried mugs behind the counter with the steady rhythm of someone who found peace in routine, the soft background jazz barely audible under the storm’s tantrum. The café smelled like warm pastries and wet pavement, a strangely comforting mix. Dino & Dad’s Corner glowed like a small hearth in the middle of a flooding world.

He was lost in thought —worries, hopes, half-written dreams— when he heard footsteps approaching. Not soft ones. Not the dignified pace of someone strolling with an umbrella. No. These sounded like someone being chased by the rain itself, splashing wildly, getting louder, closer, until—

The door flung open so violently the bell let out a screech, more insulted than chiming.

And there, framed by the wild gray of the morning, stood a man.

Absolutely waterlogged. Positively drenched. A human aquarium.

He looked like he had fought the ocean and lost. 

His hood was down but offered no help; curls clung to his forehead like seaweed. Water slid off his jacket in a steady rhythm, forming a growing puddle at his feet. His backpack dripped like a broken faucet, and his notebook —clutched to his chest as if it were a newborn— was limp and sagging at the edges.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he blurted out, breathless and shivering, shifting from foot to foot like the ground was lava. “I didn’t mean to… um… create a mini lake in your doorway.”

“It’s okay,” Eddie said with a calmness completely incompatible with the fact that he had literally just finished mopping. “You’re not the only one who came in leaking today.”

“Yeah but…” The stranger scrunched his nose, eyes widening at the puddle forming beneath him. “I think I contributed like… thirty percent extra? Maybe forty. Fifty if we’re being honest.”

He held up his notebook with resigned horror. It dripped. It dripped.

Christopher peeked over the top of his graphic novel from his beanbag fortress, his face lifting like a prairie dog sensing new activity. His glasses were slightly crooked and his graphic novel rested forgotten on his lap.

He squinted up at the stranger, taking in every detail with the scrutiny of a tiny, bespectacled detective.

“It’s raining cats and dogs,” he announced helpfully, as if the soaked stranger wasn’t evidence enough.

The man’s head snapped up, and smiled —a bright, warm, unfairly charming smile. He lifted his hand in a wiggly little wave.

“Hey, hi! I’m Buck.”

Chris squinted at him as if evaluating his soul, then glanced dramatically at Azul, then at his father. Finally, after a long moment of seven-year-old judgment, he nodded satisfied.

Eddie’s shoulders shook with a laugh he tried —and failed— to hide.

“You look like a nice person,” he declared. “Are you a nice person?”

Buck blinked, looking like no one had ever asked him such an important question before breakfast.

“I… I mean, I hope so?” He said with an awkward shrug.

Christopher mirrored the shrug, then immediately pointed at him with serious intensity.

“Do you know stuff about dinosaurs?”

Eddie couldn’t stop the laughter that escaped him —soft and affectionate— and Christopher shot him the you-better-explain-why-you’re-laughing-at-me look.

Buck, meanwhile, lit up at the question.

“Well… I know that triceratops like that guy over there—” He pointed dramatically at Azul. “—weren’t very good swimmers.”

Christopher narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”

“They’re too… pointy,” Buck said with great authority. “Hydrodynamics. Science. Very serious stuff.”

Chris stared at him. Slow. Suspicious.

“I have a book about it at home,” Buck added quickly. “Next time I come by, I can show you the fun facts. I know lots of dinosaur truths. And lies. Mostly truths.”

Chris nodded solemnly, apparently impressed. 

“Okay. You can show me the book next time.”

Buck’s grin was instant and bright.

“You can come in,” Christopher added generously. “I like you.”

Eddie let out a warm laugh, shaking his head at the whole spectacle. Buck, utterly drenched and shivering, turned to Eddie as if asking for approval to exist.

“Do I have your approval to come in too?” he asked, teasing but shy, as if he wasn’t already fully inside and actively making a puddle.

“You’re already in,” Eddie chuckled. “But you can hang your jacket over there and sit at the bar. I’ll get you something hot. On the house.”

Buck’s eyes widened with something between gratitude and panic. “No— no, no, please, I don’t want to cause trouble.”

Eddie leaned on the counter, placed the cup in front of him, and smiled —a little too boldly for a man who usually stumbled over compliments.

“You already caused it,” he said, punctuating it with a wink he absolutely did not authorize his face to make. “This is the compensation package.”

He fled immediately. Not very heroically.

As soon as he reached the back hallway, he slapped both hands over his face and whispered a silent scream into his palms. 

His heart drummed violently —loud and confused— at the same time his finger shook and his cheeks burned.

He felt ridiculous. And alive. And ridiculous again.

He paced around for a few seconds before forcing himself to breathe in. Then out. Fixed his hair. Smoothed his shirt. Grabbed a fleece blanket. Picked up the pot of hot chocolate.

Then he reenter the café with the false composure of someone pretending they didn’t just flirt like a teenager.

He emerged right on time to witness Buck open his mouth —probably to argue again— before a sneeze ripped itself out of him with dramatic flair.

“Bless you,” Eddie said, chuckling.

“Ay,” Christopher said, shaking his head like a disapproving grandfather. “You must be freezing. That sneeze sounded like a flu.”

Buck sniffled, looking personally attacked by the truth.

Eddie placed the steaming pot on the counter and poured the hot chocolate slowly. The rich liquid flowed thick and glossy —French-style chocolate, velvety and heavy with cinnamon, cloves, and vanilla. He added marshmallows until they formed a fluffy white island —enough to make your soul sit down and sigh with happiness.

He pushed it toward Buck and offered the blanket.

“Hot chocolate and a blanket,” Eddie said softly. “Because some things in life really do get better with small, warm things.”

Buck accepted them like someone receiving sanctuary. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders like a burrito, letting out a tiny satisfied sound, then cupped the mug with both hands, eyes half-closed.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Really… thank you so much.”

Then he smiled.

And the room brightened.

The rain quieted —or maybe Eddie stopped hearing it. The steam curled around Buck’s face like a blessing. Eddie’s chest tightened in that terrifying, beautiful way that only happens once in a very long while.

Buck took a sip and his whole face melted into bliss. Then he sighed.

A sound so honest, so relieved, so warm that Eddie felt it in his skin.

“I think I just saw God,” Buck murmured.

Eddie swallowed a laugh —and a dangerous amount of feelings.

The way Buck’s smile lit up the room felt almost… indecent. Like the storm had brought him here just to switch on a hidden lamp inside Eddie’s ribs.

“Good cocoa,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “And, uh… A spark of love in every cup.”

Buck ducked his head and his ears went pink as he hid behind the mug.

Eddie forced himself to return to his cups, though his eyes kept drifting —again and again— toward the newcomer. Buck wandered the shop with his mug in hand, trailing his fingers along the spines of books, murmuring titles under his breath, smiling softly at the shelves as if greeting old friends.

Chris watched him like a tiny bouncer evaluating a new regular.

Eventually Buck chose a table near Chris and gently opened his damp notebook. The pages were wrinkled, the ink smudged in places, but the words were still visible: heartbreak, gentle hope, longing, scattered phrases searching for a home.

Eddie scanned the café. Only one teenage boy with headphones on. No one likely to need him.

So heapproached without thinking and tilted his head to read.

“What’re you working on?” Eddie asked gently.

Buck looked up, shy but smiling. 

“Oh— writing. Freelance writing.” He made a vague gesture. “Which is what I say when I want to sound professional. I, uh… haven’t finished any books yet.”

Chris perked up immediately.

“Dad says finishing things takes brave,” he declared, completely ignoring grammar. 

“I didn’t say—”

“You did. When you fixed a chair at Abuela’s.”

Eddie choked. “That— that was different.”

“Nope,” Chris said, popping the ‘p’. “Same brave.”

Buck laughed —a big, bright, sun-through-clouds laugh that lit up the whole café. Eddie stared too long again. He couldn’t help it. 

There was something about Buck that buzzed with life, tenderness, longing. Something that made Eddie’s heart curl toward him like a plant finding sunlight.

“You can write here if you want,” Eddie said softly, without thinking. “We’ve got outlets, good coffee, a talkative kid, and a dinosaur security team.”

Buck looked at Azul. At Chris. At Eddie. Then smiled again.

“Looks strict,” he said.

Chris nodded with authority. “Very.”

The storm outside raged harder, rattling windows, drumming against the bricks. But inside, the café felt like a soft-lit pocket of the universe where everything was warm and possible.

Buck set his backpack down, pulled out a chewed pencil, and exhaled a long breath —the kind that sounded like maybe he’d found shelter in more than one way.

Eddie returned to the counter, but his eyes strayed again and again to the corner table, like gravity.

Because sometimes, yes… Sometimes stories begin like this.

With a storm.

With a stranger dripping water on a freshly mopped floor.

With a soaked notebook and a smile that lights up a room.

And Eddie —the romantic fool who tried so hard not to hope— felt destiny nudge him gently, whispering in a voice that sounded a lot like his Abuela’s.

Pay attention, mi amor. You just opened the right door.

Buck returned the next day.

And the next

And the next.

Every morning, at precisely 8 a.m., he materialized at the door like some sort of well-meaning literary ghost, wearing the same half-sheepish smile, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his notebook clutched to his chest as if it were a fragile relic.

“I was just passing by, and I thought, why not?” he’d say, sliding into the exact same chair as that first day, already pulling out his pens like a man preparing for battle.

And it was a lie —Eddie would have bet his entire stock of coffee beans on it— because nobody “passes by here” three days in a row from the same corner, at the same time, with the same guilty little smile that said I hope you didn’t notice I rehearsed this line in the mirror.

But the place had already claimed him. Eddie knew the pattern, he’d seen it in dozens of regulars. 

Places like these didn’t grab you —they seeped in slowly, like warm sunlight on a cold morning, like the first sip of good coffee that makes you think, Maybe I can survive today. They wrapped around you and whispered, “Stay a little longer.” 

And then you did. Again, and again.

On Thursday, Eddie was rearranging books alphabetically —something he pretended he enjoyed and absolutely did not— when he heard fast, uneven steps. A moment later, a triumphant gasp hit the air.

“I’m not soaked!” Buck declared proudly, spreading his arms like a soggy prophet finally spared by the heavens.

“Congratulations,” Eddie murmured, smiling without looking up, just glancing to the side as Buck dropped his jacket beside Chris’s crutches.

“Thank you,” Buck replied, grin audible, somehow juggling his laptop, his notebook, two pens, a charger, and what Eddie suspected was a snack he wasn’t supposed to bring inside. “It was a team effort between me and the weather.”

Eddie chuckled quietly —he never admitted it, but he liked the sound of Buck’s voice echoing between the bookshelves— just as Christopher shuffled over from the counter, croissant crumbs decorating his cheeks like war paint.

“You didn’t finish your book today either?” Chris asked, head tilted like a tiny, judgmental owl.

Buck pressed a hand to his chest dramatically. 

“Ouch. A direct hit. I like you too, kid.”

Chris shrugged with ancient wisdom. “Dad says it hurts because it’s true.”

“I never said—” Eddie started, then froze when Chris blinked up at him.

“You did. When you talked about taxes.”

Eddie deflated. “Yeah… okay. That’s fair.”

Buck was still laughing when he settled at his table, the lights warming around him, the café softening at the edges like it was happy he was back. He opened his water-warped notebook, touched the rippled pages with fond exasperation, and let his laptop boot up with the speed of a tired snail.

Eddie pretended to focus on wiping the counter, but his eyes —traitorous, shameless— kept drifting toward that corner table. 

Buck had habits. Eddie had noticed them. 

When the words weren’t flowing, Buck always, always asked for the strongest coffee Eddie could legally produce. Which was Eddie’s cue.

Sure enough, a soft groan rose from the table.

“Eddie,” Buck whined, pout forming —an adult shouldn’t have been able to pull it off, and yet somehow Buck made it look adorable. “I have writer’s block.”

“How long?” Eddie asked, leaning closer, tilting his head to peek at the chaotic scrawl of ink and frustration.

“Since I was sixteen. Give or take.”

Eddie snorted, squeezing Buck’s shoulder companionably. 

“Then a strong coffee for you.”

Buck’s cheeks turned pink. “If I start hearing colors, I’ll let you know.”

As if summoned by the danger of caffeine, Christopher peeked over the counter.

“Can I have one like Buck’s?” he asked hopefully.

“No,” Eddie said instantly. “Absolutely not. If I give you that, you’ll climb the walls, and Social Services will have a heart attack.”

Chris frowned, grabbed his light cofee, and sipped like a disappointed old man.

Eddie went back to the counter to prepare Buck’s personal jet fuel —two espresso shots, extra-strong brew, sugar, cinnamon, and the thin slice of chocolate cake Eddie pretended was just coincidence.

Behind him, Buck’s muttering rose and fell.

“No, no, this is terrible—

Did I write this? Why would I write this?

Okay… if I read it fast, it’s not that awful…”

Eddie smiled. He understood that language —the quiet panic of someone who loved what they did, even when they doubted every word.

When Eddie brought the coffee over, Buck looked up and gifted him one of those smiles. The kind that softened his whole face, that made his eyes smaller and brighter, that made Eddie’s chest feel like someone had opened a window there.

“Thanks for… all of this,” Buck murmured, voice small. “I don’t usually last long in cafés. I always feel like everyone else knows exactly what they’re doing except me.”

Eddie rested a hand on his shoulder again, gentle but firm. He liked touching him. He didn’t overthink that.

“Maybe you just hadn’t found the right place yet.”

Buck blinked, startled by the simplicity. 

“Maybe.”

At that moment, Christopher arrived, balancing the stuffed dinosaur, his graphic novel, and his mug like a miniature acrobat. He carefully placed Azul on the table facing Buck.

“He can watch you while you write,” Chris declared, confident as a king offering a sacred talisman.

Buck’s entire face softened. “I get to borrow the guardian?”

“Just today,” Chris warned, pointing a tiny, serious finger. “Don’t take advantage.”

Buck nodded solemnly. 

“I would never disrespect the guardian.”

Eddie drifted away, helping new customers, cleaning tables, restocking shelves —but his attention kept slipping back to that corner. To Buck writing with Azul beside him like a tiny blue muse. 

To Chris giggling at Buck’s comments. 

To Buck smiling —small, private, like he finally stopped fighting the ideas in his head.

Eventually, Buck switched to his laptop. His fingers flew. Inspiration had arrived like a storm.

The days blurred beautifully after that.

More rain. More coffee.

More Buck.

From the corner of the café Buck's monologues echoed off the walls every now and then—

“How do you write good dialogue?”

“What is in this coffee? I can see through time.”

“Can I adopt Azul if I become famous?”

Even in those nonsensical conversations he had with Chris, which always elicited a funny sound from Eddie's lips.

“Why is Azul staring at me like that?”

“It means you’re distracted,” Eddie called, not even turning around, earning a giggle from Chris and a stuck-out tongue from Buck.

The café changed with him there. 

Softer. Warmer. 

More alive. 

Like someone had opened a window and let in fresh air, laughter, and something that felt suspiciously like hope.

Eddie saw it in the way Buck breathed differently when he walked in each morning —like he was stepping into a safe place. He saw it in how Chris lit up around him. In how Buck recommended books with a reverence that made Eddie want to sit and listen forever.

Everything had changed since that first drenched smile.

Eddie knew these visits weren’t casual. But he wasn’t rushing to name it —not when it filled the mornings with something sweet, not when it made the café feel less like a business and more like a story gently blooming.

Not when he knew that, like good coffee, some things needed time to reach their richest, warmest, most extraordinary version of themselves.

One morning, after saying goodbye to Estefa —who left waving a Tupperware of empanadas courtesy of Abuela— and after rearranging the same three books for the twentieth time —because last night rush had been particularly chaotic—, Buck arrived at the café.

Much earlier than usual.

So early, in fact, that the door was still locked and the lights still warming up. But Eddie saw him through the window —saw the familiar silhouette, the backpack slung over one shoulder, the hopeful lift of his eyebrows— and moved to unlock the door before Buck could even reach for the handle.

The bell above the door chimed sweetly, and that gentle sound instantly made Christopher look up from his new fantasy book. He had been so absorbed in it since Buck gave it to him that Eddie wasn’t sure Chris still remembered the concept of the outside world. 

But at the sound of Buck’s arrival, Chris blinked and smiled, the way kids do when their favorite surprise shows up earlier than expected.

Buck stepped inside with that sheepish grin he used whenever he felt too visible. 

He shed his jacket and placing it beside Chris’s crutches, patting Eddie’s arm —in a soft, almost shy greeting— on his way to their usual corner like it was already a small ritual between them. Eddie felt that simple touch echo longer than it should. He followed Buck with his eyes as he crossed the room with a spark of energy Eddie hadn’t seen in months.

“I’m here to be productive today,” Buck declared confidently, dropping his backpack onto the table with theatrical purpose.

He sat, pulled out his laptop and notebook so fast he almost elbowed his own face, and cracked his knuckles with exaggerated determination.

Eddie huffed a laugh.

“You said that yesterday,” Eddie teased, leaning over Buck’s shoulder, bringing his face dangerously close to the laptop screen. “Did you write at home?”

Buck lit up like someone had handed him his first-ever sticker for good behavior.

“I did! I wrote a couple of pretty decent paragraphs,” he said proudly, pointing at the document. “And I wrote this week’s shopping list entirely in metaphors, but I’m not sure if that counts.”

From his corner, Christopher raised his head.

“It does count,” he said wisely, and returned to his book like a tiny professor who had already bestowed enough knowledge for the morning.

Buck beamed at him —cheeky, tender, and painfully charming. Eddie had to inhale slowly before he forgot how to breathe.

Buck started reading over what he’d written the night before. Three words in, five deleted. Four added, three obliterated. Eddie watched him rub his temples, lean over the keyboard with theatrical despair, and exhale dramatically.

The eternal torture cycle of a writer.

Eddie would’ve laughed if it didn’t make Buck look so heartbreakingly small.

He went behind the counter to make Buck’s creative coffee —light roast, two shots of expresso and a little bit of cinnamor just enough kick to calm him instead of wind him up— when Buck suddenly let out a sigh that felt heavier than the entire shop.

“You know what the worst part is?” he murmured, voice thick and low with his eyes fixed on the screen. “That now that I’m reading it again… I hate it. I hate all of it. Sometimes I think I’m no good at anything. Sometimes I think I should just… stop.”

The sentence fell into the quiet café like a slow stone sinking in water.

Eddie froze.

Even Chris froze, the page turning halfway before stopping midair. Words like that didn’t belong to the Buck they know —they belonged to someone who’d been hurting quietly in a corner, hoping no one would notice.

Eddie moved closer, sitting across from him in the sofa so their legs brushed gently under the table. 

Buck stared at the screen and kept typing, deleting, pretending he hadn’t said anything catastrophic, shoulders curling inward and his whole body shrinking like he expected someone to scold him for existing, as if he were waiting for the world to agree with his worst fears.

Christopher, sweet and earnest, set his book aside with the gravity of a child about to fix something important.

“That’s not true,” he said firmly. “You’re good at lots of things. You’re good at making puddles when it rains, and telling jokes that are so bad they’re funny. And talking to dinosaurs. And recommending books.”

Buck let out a small, fragile giggle. Eddie clasped his hands in his lap, resisting the instinct to hold him, to anchor him.

“Thanks, buddy,” Buck whispered. “But unfortunately none of that pays the bills.”

Eddie opened his mouth to intervene, but Chris got up, walked to Buck, and placed a hand on his forearm with all the seriousness of a tiny Jedi master.

“My dad says if something makes you happy, it’s more important,” he announced, then he looked at Eddie —whose soul was practically leaving his body—, pointing at him. “Dad, dont deny it. You said that when you burned the pancakes and said you didn’t mind because they were fun to flip.”

Eddie sputtered. “It was a bad day.”

“That was four in a row,” Chris corrected gently. 

Buck snorted.

Christopher placed a warm little hand on Buck’s, serious and soft and impossibly wise.

“If Dad keeps trying even when he burns stuff, you can keep writing.”

Buck breathed out a sound that was part-laugh, part-sob, but the sadness in his eyes loosened just a little and his smile returned, thin and worn around the edges, but real.

Chris returned to his reading spot with a dramatic flop, like he’d just saved the world. Again.

Eddie leaned forward, letting his fingers hover near Buck’s hand before brushing it lightly —barely a touch, but enough to make Buck lift his eyes. It wasn’t an accident this time. Not even a little.

“Do you want me to tell you the truth?” Eddie asked gently.

Buck looked up slowly, eyes wide, open, afraid but hopeful. He nodded.

Eddie took a breath.

“Most people who come here want to be something. Poets, painters, musicians… They carry dreams like luggage. Heavy. Loud.” He let his pinky graze Buck’s hand again. “Dreams weigh a lot. And I know sometimes you think yours aren’t worth carrying.”

“I don’t know if I can carry my own,” Buck swallowed, voice tiny and trembling at the edges. “What do you think?”

Eddie chuckled softly. 

“I think…” Eddie chuckled softly, “I’m the last person to judge success. I wanted a place where Chris could grow up feeling safe. And instead I opened a bookstore-café combo that leaks every time it rains and barely makes a profit. So trust me —I am not the blueprint for success.”

Buck looked around slowly, scanning every imperfect corner, and shook his head, blinking slowly.

“But this place is perfect,” he insisted.

“It’s not perfect,” Eddie insisted, pointing to the back. “The oven dies whenever it hates me, and Chris convinced half his school they can pay with drawings.”

Buck looked up at the ceiling, then at Eddie, then around the shop, like he was discovering it all over again.

“And still… it feels better than anywhere I’ve been in months.”

Eddie’s heart slammed against his ribs. Warmth bloomed low in his stomach like sunlight filtering through clouds.

There it was. The truth —quiet, unpolished, solid.

“There it is,” Eddie murmured. “What’s imperfect for you might be perfect for someone else. Don’t shut yourself off. Let it flow.”

Buck squinted, licking his lips. “Is that why you’re so calm? Because you let everything flow?”

Eddie opened his mouth, but Christopher’s voice cut in again from his corner.

“Dad doesn’t let things flow,” he announced. “He’s super bossy. But if he’s reading that poetry book, he’s calm and happy.”

Eddie rubbed his face with both hands. “Chris…”

“You haven’t read anything today,” Chris added, settling back into the cushions and pointing at Buck. “So be careful.”

“I swear I don’t know who taught you to talk like this,” Eddie muttered.

“It was you. And Abuela. Mostly Abuela.”

Before Eddie could curl up behind the counter, Buck spoke again —soft, amused—, but his grin sharpened.

“You read poetry when you’re in a good mood?”

Eddie narrowed his eyes. “So what if I did?”

“You didn’t read any yesterday,” Buck replied plainly.

Eddie froze, cheeks flushing.

Buck noticed things. He noticed him.

Something shifted between them —small, but unmistakable, like the earth tilting half an inch. The air warmed. The space softened.

Buck fiddled with his pen.

“Sometimes I just need to be somewhere where I don’t feel like a mess. And this place… I don’t know… it helps me breathe.”

Eddie let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“We’re all a mess,” he said, standing slowly. “It’s allowed here.”

“I’m a mess at lots of things,” Buck confessed, wrinkling his nose.

Eddie placed his hand on Buck’s shoulder.

“Then you fit right in.”

Buck looked down, cheeks pink, eyes bright in a new way —gentler, braver, dangerous in all the ways that made Eddie’s stomach twist.

“Thanks,” he whispered, opening his laptop again, fingers finally steady.

The rest of the day passed sweetly —Buck typing with a little more confidence talking to Azul for opinions, Chris drawing motivational dinosaur Post-its for Buck’s laptop with quotes like Rawr means Never Give Up and tiny little dinosaurs and Eddie… Well, Eddie pretending he wasn’t staring at them every fifteen seconds.

The words in the air felt like unspoken promises —loose pages waiting to fall into place.

Not a “never.” Not a “someday.”

More like a quiet, steady, probably later.

That was enough for both of them.

When night settled and Buck waved goodbye, Chris tugged on Eddie’s sleeve, eyes sparkling.

“Dad,” he whispered conspiratorially, “Buck’s writing beautifully.”

Eddie chuckled, brushing his son’s hair back.

“How do you know it’s beautiful if you haven’t read it?”

Chris thought for a moment, then shrugged.

“When someone does something beautiful, you can see it on their face.”

Eddie looked at the door where Buck had just disappeared, a soft hum in his chest.

If Chris was right —and he usually was— then Buck had thousands of beautiful things blooming inside his mind, waiting to burst out.

And Eddie already wanted to read every single one.

The following Tuesday unfolded in a slow, tender blur of yawns and soft morning light.

Eddie pushed open the café door with his hip, balancing a half-asleep Christopher who was hanging onto him like a koala with a backpack. Chris’s curls were flattened on one side, his backpack bouncing with every step, and every thirty seconds he sighed dramatically —as only a seven-year-old forced into the cruel reality of morning classes could.

“Dad,” Chris mumbled into Eddie’s shoulder, “school should start at twelve. Or never. Never is good too.”

“You say that every morning,” Eddie said, kissing the top of his son’s hair. “And every morning, school still happens.”

“I don’t wanna go to school today,” he whined, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand. “My brain is still sleeping. You can’t make a sleepy brain do math, Dad. It’s illegal.”

“It absolutely isn’t,” Eddie murmured, putting Chris in his beanbag. “But if it were, I’d be in jail every Monday.”

“The world is mean.” whispered Chris, hiding his face in Azul fur.

Eddie couldn't even argue with that before Estefa arrived, carrying her usual, and a sparkle in her eyes that didn’t belong to a normal Tuesday. It was brighter. Sharper. A little mischievous.

“Mornin’,” Eddie greeted, and before he could ask about the baby, she placed both hands on her belly and exhaled.

“Buenos días,” she announced, waving as if she hadn’t just waddled across the entire parking lot with more than fifty baked goods in her hands. “Guess whose baby finally decided he’s not doing things on my schedule?”

She made a face —half-annoyed, half-proud— and moved the hand over her very round belly.

“Baby didn’t want to come out on his own, so tomorrow I have to go in for induction and delivery,” she sighed dramatically. 

Christopher tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he repeated the phrase, trying to make it make sence.

“Baby’s coming tomorrow,” He murmured like someone had just told him dinosaurs were real and waiting outside.

But before Eddie could laugh at his son, Estefa winced gently and rested her hand low on her stomach.

“He’s already awake today. Do you want to feel?”

Eddie froze mid-coffee-ground-scoop like someone had paused him with a remote control, suddenly looking as nervous as the day he became a dad for the first time. But he nodded, wiping his hands quickly on a towel and stepping around the counter, both nervous and excited.

His fingertips hesitated for a second before resting on the curve of her belly.

A second later, the baby nudged him —politely, but with clear personality.

Eddie’s entire face melted into a smile so bright it could’ve powered the espresso machine for a week.

“Hola, bebé,” he whispered —with a tenderness that made Estefa grin wider— smiling like an absolute fool. “We’re so excited to meet you.”

Christopher’s eyes flew open. Sleepiness? Dead. Gone. Extinct.

Christopher squeezed in —literally wedging himself under Eddie’s arm— to press his tiny palm beside his dad’s. 

“He kicked me! Dad! He kicked me! He said hi to me!” Chris said, hopping twice because his crutches were leaning against a chair and enthusiasm defied gravity. “Hi baby! When you come out, you can watch dinosaur movies with me! And I promise to teach you how to drink coffee the way Abuela taught me.”

Both Eddie and Estefa stared at him like he’d just announced he was teaching the baby to skydive, then she laughed so hard she had to hold her belly.

“He’s going to be born addicted to caffeine,” Eddie muttered.

“Like his mother,” she replied cheerfully.

They hugged her carefully, wishing her luck, and she waddled out with that same glow she’d walked in with, stronger than ever.

The morning rolled forward. The café carried on with its usual rhythm. And even though Eddie tried to pretend he wasn’t listening —every time the bell chimed, every time footsteps approached— his head snapped up.

Waiting.

Expecting.

But something was off.

Because Buck didn’t come.

Eddie kept glancing at the door, pretending he was checking for customers, but every single time he hoped for a tall writer with a messy backpack and a smile that made his knees behave incorrectly.

Nothing.

Not even a shadow.

Chris kept turning around in his chair too, hopeful little eyes tracking every tiny sound the bell made., until he finally had to leave for school. He pressed his lips together, glancing at the empty corner where the “Buck Spot” had unofficially become a household term, a tiny wrinkle forming between his eyebrows.

“He’s not here,” he said softly, disappointment curving his mouth. But then, with an optimism Eddie wished he could bottle and drink, he added, “But I’ll see him when I get back.”

Eddie laughed softly, trying to hide how his stomach twisted. “Yeah, probably.”

Except Chris didn’t see him later.

And neither did Eddie.

Buck never walked through that door.

That night, while closing up, a silence heavy enough to bruise settled over the café. Chairs stacked. Lights dimmed. The poetry book still untouched where he’d left it since the night before. Eddie locked the door, and Christopher —already buckled into the car— looked up at him with wide, worried eyes.

“Is Buck mad at us, Dad?”

The question stabbed deep.

“I don’t know, bud,” Eddie sighed, shutting his door and gripping the steering wheel. “I’m worried about him.”

He didn’t say what he was really thinking: I don’t know what I did wrong. Why did he stop coming? Why didn’t I ask for his number? How can someone feel so close and still be a mystery?

Buck didn’t come.

Not on Tuesday.

Not Wednesday.

Not Thursday.

And over the next three days, absolutely nothing changed —except Eddie, who was slowly unraveling.

Because he kept wondering whether he’d done something wrong. Whether he’d said something he shouldn’t have. Whether he’d misread everything —the smiles, the pink cheeks, the way Buck leaned toward him like gravity had an opinion.

By the third morning, Eddie looked like he’d been drinking sadness instead of coffee. 

His eyes were shadowed, his smile worn down, his hair refused to be tamed. He’d forgotten to restock napkins. Forgotten to turn on the sign. His poetry book sat abandoned near the register like an open wound. Even his coffee tasted bitter enough to wake the dead.

Chris tried to help, taping a bright colorful sign on Buck’s usual table —RESERVED written in bright colors, with some dinosaur feet, the word slightly crooked. He fixed it three times a day so it stayed perfectly visible. He even put Azul there to make sure nobody touched it.

As if saving the spot would make Buck reappear.

And somehow that hope hurt the most.

More than it should for a man he’d known only a couple of weeks.

Because Buck —ridiculous, brilliant, gentle Buck— had carved out space in Eddie’s life so fast it scared him.

“Damn it,” Eddie muttered one night, flipping the OPEN sign to CLOSED harder than necessary. “Why did I let you get to me like this?”

The fourth morning arrived, quiet and cold. Eddie was wiping down the counter when footsteps approached —and the sound sliced straight through him.

Those footsteps.

The ones he could recognize even in his sleep.

The bell chimed.

He looked up too quickly, hope clawing through his chest.

And there he was.

Buck.

Not glowing, not bright, not even smiling —but there. Pale, worn out, tired around the eyes, shoulders tense. His hair slightly messy, like he hadn’t slept, and when he exhaled at the doorway —that same slow, deep breath he always took when he entered the café— Eddie’s lungs finally inflated again.

The relief hit Eddie so hard it made him dizzy. Then the anger hit too. And the sadness. And the worry. And frustration and longing and about nine other emotions he didn’t have names for.

“Welcome back,” Eddie said, voice rougher than he intended. Too dry. Too small. Too guarded. He winced instantly when Buck flinched. “We missed you.”

That last part slipped out soft, unfiltered. And he hated how vulnerable it sounded.

Buck froze. His eyes flickered with a thousand things —fear, disbelief, confusion, yearning— before settling into something raw.

“Who am I to be missed?” he whispered.

The words were so broken Eddie felt them crack in his chest, and he stepped back a little, struck silent by the pain in that sentence.

Buck hung his jacket by Chris’s usual spot, his eyes lingering on the empty place where the crutches used to be.

“Is… Is Christopher okay?”

“In class,” Eddie said gently, trying —failing— to hide the storm inside him. He started preparing Buck’s coffee, adding the espresso shot without asking. “He’s been asking about you.”

Buck’s lips trembled into a sad smile, graze dropping. 

“I don’t think so. He’s probably more excited about his little brother.”

Eddie blinked. “His what?”

Buck only shrugged, resigned and hurting. 

“Was everything okay with the birth?”

“What birth?” Eddie asked, stepping forward until he stood inches away from him, confusion tightening every muscle in his face.

Buck let out a humorless little snort. 

“Never mind.”

“No, seriously, Buck—”

“I just want to write,” Buck interrupted, voice shaking but firm as he brushed past Eddie.

Eddie stood there, stunned and aching, watching him move to his usual corner. Buck picked up Chris’s “RESERVED” sign, stared at it with a small, sad smile, held it to his chest for one long second and then set it gently on the counter before patting Azul head and unpacking his things.

Eddie wanted to scream. Or cry. Or both.

Life didn’t stop just because his heart was trying to beat itself into dust. A customer came in. Eddie swallowed the tornado inside him and forced himself to smile, taking the order, and pretended he wasn’t watching Buck out of the corner of his eye every three seconds.

Throughout the morning, Eddie brought him coffee —sometimes regular, sometimes an extra shot when Buck’s hands trembled. Buck never said more than a quiet “thanks.” 

His face was carved from focus, emotion sealed away. Guarded like someone who’d been wounded somewhere Eddie couldn’t see.

When the school day ended and Chris walked in, he scanned the café like always. His eyes landed on Buck.

And his face lit up so brightly he nearly glowed.

“Buck!” He yelled it so loudly several customers jumped.

He dropped his backpack and his crutches with a clatter, stomp-ran toward him, and threw his arms around Buck’s middle. 

Eddie expected Buck to flinch —but he didn’t. 

Buck twisted just in time to catch him in a hug that was too soft, too warm, too full of everything he refused to say to Eddie, stumbling back with a startled —and soft— laugh.

Eddie’s heart twisted painfully.

Because Buck’s smile bloomed.

Because Chris’s joy was real and bright and immediate.

Because Eddie wished —just once— that smile was for him too.

Chris stayed glued to Buck’s side the whole afternoon.

The little boy chattered nonstop —about school, about dinosaurs, about how Estefa’s baby was so chubby and how Estefa’s sister made a cake shaped like a turtle.

Buck listened. Patient. Kind. Gentle.

They did homework together, Chris leaning on Buck’s arm while Buck wrote notes in between paragraphs of his own work. Every time Chris asked a question —“Buck, what’s a homophone?” or “Do frogs sleep with their eyes open?”— Buck answered gently, patiently, distracted but still trying.

It felt like breathing for them. Natural.

It felt like heartbreak for Eddie.

Because he didn’t look at Eddie all afternoon. Not once.

Buck left at his usual time, ruffled Chris’s hair, left a couple bills, and slipped out the door without meeting Eddie’s eyes.

Eddie wilted behind the counter while something inside him cracked.

Later, on the drive home, Eddie kept his voice steady, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“What did you two talk about today, kiddo?”

Christopher kicked his feet, thinking.

“I told him everything!” he said proudly. “About Estefa, and her chubby baby, and school, and my drawings, and how I beat Tyler in math even though Tyler cheats with his fingers, and how Abuela said she’ll make cookies for the baby, and—”

“But Buck didn’t talk much?” Eddie asked gently.

Chris shook his head. 

“He looked sad. Like… like when someone hides their crying in the bathroom but you can hear them anyway.”

The image hit Eddie like a punch.

“Maybe we can help him,” Chris whispered, voice tiny with worry. “We’re good helpers, Dad.”

Eddie swallowed around the burn in his throat.

“When you think of something, you tell me,” he whispered back. “Okay?”

Because right now, Eddie wasn’t sure Buck would let him close enough to help. He wanted to help Buck. He wanted to fix whatever had broken. He wanted to reach him, hold him, understand him.

But that expression Buck had worn that morning —the one full of confusion, disappointment, hurt. Eddie wasn’t sure he could survive seeing it again.

And the thought of losing him again —of losing whatever fragile, beautiful thing had been growing— hurt more than he was ready to admit.

The next morning greeted them with a rain so heavy it felt like the sky had decided to wring itself out directly over the city. Water hammered the café windows in frantic bursts, turning the world outside into shifting watercolor shapes. 

Eddie had already surrendered to the weather and poured himself a second —third— cup of coffee, the bitter warmth grounding him in the quiet of the early hour.

He stared out the café window, coffee mug in hand, wondering if the universe was trying to tell him something.

Probably yes. Probably something along the lines of: “Get your life together, Díaz.”

He lifted the mug to his lips —finally a moment of stillness— when the sound hit him.

Fast footsteps. The sharp jingle of the café bell.

A breath so deep it sounded torn from someone’s ribs, like someone had just surfaced for air.

Then Buck—soaked, wide-eyed, and wearing the exact expression Eddie had been seeing in his dreams all damn week. An expression full of unsaid things, tangled things, things Eddie had tried very hard not to dwell on for more than three seconds at a time.

"I was an idiot," Buck blurted by way of greeting, rain dripping from his curls, voice pitched somewhere between breathless and frantic. 

He didn’t even pause before the words tumbled out of him in a wild, unstoppable stream. 

"I was a giant idiot. I saw something and thought things I shouldn’t have thought, , and my brain did… brain things, and then I panicked, and I thought it was best to walk away, but I missed this place and I missed you guys, and I was an idiot. A really big one. Monumentally big."

His words came out like someone had turned his anxiety into a blender and hit purée. His hands shook. His hair dripped onto the floor. His cheeks flushed pink. And his eyes —God— his eyes were full of everything he hadn’t been saying for days.

Eddie’s gaze flicked to Christopher, curled up in his giant blue beanbag with a blanket around his shoulders. Chris wasn’t reading this time —just drifting in that soft pre-school morning haze. His son blinked curiously at Buck, with his hair stuck up in twenty-seven directions.

"Hi, Buck," he mumbled sleepily, rubbing his eyes and hugging Azul against his chest. "You look like a big soggy puppy."

Even in crisis, Buck managed an embarrassed laugh —half relief, half self-pity. 

"Yeah, buddy. I feel like one too."

Eddie’s chest tightened. The sight of him —alive, safe, here— loosened something that had been knotted inside Eddie since the moment Buck walked out days ago without looking back.

Eddie took one breath.

Then another.

He wanted to hug him. He wanted to punch him.

He wanted to cry, laugh, yell, and wrap him in ten blankets at once.

"Hang up your coat," Eddie murmured, words soft but firm, the only thing keeping his own emotions from spilling over. "Sit at the bar."

And then he had to flee —had to— into the back room before he did something stupid like shake him or smile too hard or just… kiss Buck in front of his half-asleep son.

He closed the door behind him and pressed his forehead to the cool wall, breath shuddering free of him in one long, broken exhale. That single sentence —just those first messy syllables from Buck— had hit him like a blow to the chest.

Relief surged hot and sudden, a sob catching in his throat. He swallowed it back, palm over his eyes, and let himself feel the crash of it for a moment.

When he could breathe again, he grabbed the big, soft blanket —Buck’s favorite one, the one that always mysteriously ended up on his lap even when he pretended not to be cold— and the pitcher of hot chocolate. The same kind he’d made for Buck the first evening they met.

Eddie returned to the bar, set the mug down, and poured hot chocolate into the same mug Buck had used on his first day, sliding it in front of him without a word. This time, he didn’t slide the blanket across the counter like a polite suggestion.

He unfolded it, stepped close, and wrapped it around Buck’s shoulders himself —slow, deliberate, a grounding gesture. A promise.

Buck froze at first. Then melted.

Melted like chocolate on a summer dashboard.

His hands lingered there, squeezing once before he took the stool beside him, elbows on the counter, staring at his own hands because saying anything too quickly would’ve made him combust on the spot.

Buck’s fingers curled around the mug, grateful and shaking.

“What did you think?” Eddie asked quietly. He needed the truth before anything else.

Buck took a long sip of chocolate that clearly hit his soul. He closed his eyes, opened them slowly then exhaled in one heavy, trembling breath.

“I saw you with Estefa. I heard you both talking. And it sounded so… homey. Like you already had a life with someone. Like maybe you were expecting a baby with her, or something big was happening, and I was just… stupidly getting my hopes up. And then I felt like the world’s biggest asshole for thinking about you the way I do if you already had someone waiting at home… For having feelings for someone who wasn’t mine to have feelings for.”

Eddie snorted. He couldn’t help it. 

The laugh slipped out, choked and relieved and bright, bursting through the lingering fog of the past week. He shook his head and wiped a hand over his face, covering his mouth to stop the laugh from turning into something feral.

Buck blinked. 

“Chris told you about her yesterday, right?” Eddie said. Buck nodded sheepishly. “You could have asked me, you know?”

Buck stared into his hot chocolate as if the swirling steam could give him courage. 

“I thought about it. I walked by the café like… nineteen times. Maybe twenty. I told myself I should just go in and ask. But I…” He swallowed. “I was scared.”

Eddie frowned, his fingers fidgeting against the counter. “Of me?”

Buck shook his head almost immediately.

“No. I was scared to say what I wanted to say. Scared you’d confirm my worst fear. Scared you’d deny it. Scared of everything.”

His voice cracked, soft and raw. 

“That’s just… where I live, I guess. Scared of wanting something good. Scared of losing something good. Scared of never getting something good in the first place.”

Eddie felt that like a punch —the honesty, the vulnerability, the weight Buck carried like it was fused to his bones. 

Enough. It was enough.

He reached up without hesitation and cupped Buck’s cheek —warm palm against cold, rain-chilled skin, soft stubble under his palm. A simple touch, but it rooted both of them instantly.

“What if we faced that fear together?” Eddie asked.

No poetry. No careful phrasing. Just the truth.

Buck looked up, blue eyes shining with a mix of hope, exhaustion, and something Eddie couldn’t yet name —but wanted to. Needed to.

Buck leaned into his hand like he’d been waiting for it for days, lids fluttering, his breath catching.

“I missed you,” he whispered, voice cracking right down the middle.

Eddie didn’t stand a chance. His heart flipped over like a coin. 

"I missed you too," Eddie murmured, leaning forward until their foreheads touched, breath mingling in the stillness. 

The storm raged outside, but in the tiny circle of space between them, everything felt steady. Warm. Right.

Eddie didn’t pull back. Neither did Buck.

Their noses brushed.

Their breaths stuttered.

Buck’s fingers curled around Eddie’s wrist, holding him in place like he was afraid the moment might dissolve.

Chris yawned loudly behind them.

"Dad? Are you guys gonna kiss or something?" he asked in the blunt, innocent tone only a seven-year-old could wield, making both men jump slightly but not pull apart.

Eddie snorted. Buck choked on a laugh.

“Maybe,” Eddie said, not taking his eyes off Buck.

“You can kiss, you know. It’s okay. I’ll cover Azul eyes.” Chris muttered, unimpressed, then rolled over in his beanbag and went back to dozing.

Eddie looked back at Buck.

Buck looked back at Eddie.

The conversation wasn’t finished. Their feelings were still a mess of threads they hadn’t begun to untangle. But right now —right now wasn’t for unraveling.

It was for choosing.

And with a tiny laugh —shy, warm, terrified, hopeful— they both leaned in at the same time.

Eddie tilted his chin, just a breath closer. Buck mirrored him, equally slow, equally unsure, equally wanting.

Their lips met in the gentlest brush —warm, trembling, tentative. A first kiss shaped by fear and relief and days of aching silence. A kiss that tasted like hot chocolate and hope.

Eddie’s hand slid to the back of Buck’s neck.

Buck inhaled sharply against Eddie’s mouth, leaning in with the smallest, sweetest pressure, like someone who’d been holding his breath for years.

Eddie kissed him back. Soft. Careful. Certain.

When they finally parted, Buck dropped his forehead against Eddie’s shoulder, smiling into his shirt.

“Okay,” he whispered. “That was… really good.”

Eddie laughed softly, kissing the top of his head. “Yeah. It was.”

Outside, thunder rolled.

Inside, everything finally, finally made sense.

And for the first time in days —Eddie’s heart didn’t hurt.

It just… glowed.

Almost a year later, the rain was performing a whole dramatic monologue against the café windows —steady, wild, and absolutely refusing to let anyone forget its presence. Each drop hurled itself at the glass with the enthusiasm of a toddler who had just discovered drums, and the sky outside was one enormous, moody watercolor. 

Inside, everything glowed with that soft, honey-warm light the café seemed to hoard just for rainy days.

Christopher was curled in his usual corner, legs swinging off the cushioned chair, tongue poking out the side of his mouth in concentration the way only a 8-year-old trying very hard not to spill coffee on his new book series could manage.

The stack of adventure novels —bright covers, dragons, sparkles that somehow got on everything— sat next to him like loyal soldiers. His mug of coffee steamed gently beside them.

His tongue peeked out the corner of his mouth as he tried to read, the way it always did when he was concentrating very, very hard.

Eddie stood behind the counter watching him over the rim of his own mug, elbows resting on the polished wood, a soft grin blooming on his lips as he flipped through his newest poetry book. Every few lines he’d pause, breathe quietly, and the corner of his mouth would curl like a secret had just kissed his ear. 

He looked peaceful. Comfortable. Whole.

The door opened. The bell rang its familiar chime, and Eddie didn’t even need to look up.

His heart already had.

He felt the shift in the air first —warmth, brightness, and the faint scent of rain mixed with that ridiculous cofee shampoo Buck insisted “remind him home.”

Buck stepped in, raincoat dripping enough water to fill a small pond. It was the bright blue coat Chris had given him last Christmas —the one covered in tiny embroidered astronauts because “Buck likes space and he is space,” as Christopher had declared with deep, scholarly authority. 

Buck shook himself out like a golden retriever, hair damp, cheeks rosy from the cold, his grin impossible to miss.

“It’s here,” he announced holding a small cardboard package over his head, drawing out the words with theatrical flair as he plopped onto a stool, waterdrops glittering in his curls.

Christopher popped up from his seat so fast his book slid off his lap.

“It’s here?!” he squeaked, moving across the café with the chaotic energy of a kid experiencing pure joy. Buck barely had time to sit down on one of the stools before Chris collided with him, wrapping both arms around his waist, half climbing him like a tree.

“Is it the book? Is it the book-book? The real book?” he asked, practically vibrating.

“Easy, little meteor, you’re gonna knock me over.” Buck laughed, ruffling Chris’s hair. “The real book-book. Hot off the presses.”

“Open it! Open it!” Chris chanted, bouncing in place.

Eddie watched them from behind the counter, heart swelling so fiercely it felt like the rain outside had slipped inside his chest and grown warm.

He tore open the package, fingers trembling just a little for the excitement. When he pulled out the finished copy —of his book. His. Actual. Book— his eyes went soft and bright all at once.

The cover shone under the café lights, the title embossed elegantly in gold. His fingers traced the title like he was touching something fragile, something hard-won, something sacred.

Christopher squished into Buck’s lap, staring at the title with the awe of a kid who believed books contained genuine magic.

“Anthologies for a Little Meteor?” Chris read slowly, eyebrows bunching together, head tilting like a confused kitten. “I thought you were writing a story with dragons and punching.”

Buck tapped the tip of his nose gently.

“Oh, I wrote that too. But this one wanted to be born first.” He tapped the cover lightly. “Stories don’t always behave. Kinda like someone else I know.”

Christopher gasped dramatically. “Dad?”

Eddie snorted from behind the counter.

Buck reached across and took Eddie’s hand, fingers immediately intertwining like it was instinct. Eddie leaned in and kissed the back of his knuckles, gentle, familiar, and absolutely unfair in how it made Buck’s ears go pink.

“Wanna read one?” Buck asked softly to Eddie. “Think it’ll make you all smiley for the rest of the day.”

“I’m always smiley,” Eddie protested.

Buck gave him a look.

“Fine, I’m sometimes smiley.”

Buck handed him the book like he was giving Eddie a piece of his heart. Maybe he was.

Eddie turned the book over in his hands, feeling its weight —not just paper, but years of effort, fear, hope, and that thing Buck tried so hard not to name too loudly. 

He flipped to a random page, breath catching as he read the words —silent for now, letting them sink into him first.

Then he read out loud.

I’ve been on my own for too many years, searching for love almost in tears. I’ve crossed many rivers, moving all the time. Where is my love, my little piece of mind? Why does anything lasts forever? Two hearts on fire belongs together. You touching my soul forever, you touching my soul and my love will carry on.

Something hot and aching swelled in Eddie’s throat. He looked up to find Buck already staring at him with that smile —the one that felt like sunrise and home and stumbling into love all over again.

Eddie turned another couple of pages, fingers trembling just a little, and began reading softly.

Here comes the rain again, falling on my head like a memory, falling on my head like a new emotion. I want to walk in the open wind, I want to talk like lovers do, I want to dive into your ocean. Is it raining with you? So baby talk to me, like lovers do. Walk with me, like lovers do. Talk to me, like lovers do.

His voice wavered. Just a little. Enough for Buck to notice, because Buck always noticed.

Christopher leaned closer, resting his chin dramatically on the counter. 

“Does it say something about me?” he asked. “Because I’m very inspirational.”

Buck tightened his arm around him. “You’re the most inspirational kid I know, buddy.”

“Yeah,” Chris said, smug. “I know.”

Eddie set the book down gently, like it too was breakable. He stepped closer, lifting a hand to Buck’s cheek. Buck leaned into it immediately, eyes fluttering like the touch had knocked the air right out of him.

Christopher watched them with the level of judgment only a child could muster.

Eddie leaned across the counter and kissed Buck —soft, lingering, sweet. A kiss with the weight of a year in it. A kiss with poetry caught between breaths.

Chris scrunched his face. 

“Ew! Kissing! I’m gonna go read with the dragons,” he announced, sliding off the stool and scampering back to his corner, mumbling, “Grown-ups are weird.”

Buck chuckled into Eddie’s lips before pulling back just enough to whisper, “He’s not wrong.”

Eddie kissed him again, slower this time, savoring every second.

“I love you,” he murmured, eyes still closed, forehead resting against Buck’s. “More and more and more.”

Buck let out a breath that trembled with relief and joy. “I love you even more,” he whispered back, and it hit Eddie the same way it had the very first time—like his heart had decided to grow wings.

Rain kept tapping against the windows. Christopher’s pages kept turning with tiny rustles. And Buck’s hand slid around Eddie’s waist, holding him close like the world had finally exhaled.

Later that night, after the café closed and the rain softened into a sleepy lullaby, Eddie sat on their bed with his back against Buck’s chest. Buck’s arms wrapped around him, warm and firm, chin resting on Eddie’s shoulder as Eddie read the poems aloud one by one —verses that tasted like rain, hope, and the slow miracle of loving someone who loved you right back. 

His voice wavered sometimes. Buck’s hands tightened each time, steadying him. Between poems, they whispered things only they could hear—small truths, small promises, small universes built in the quiet.

And maybe they fell asleep like that.

Or maybe they stayed awake until dawn, hearts cracking open in the soft light.

No one else would ever know.

But outside their window, the storm finally ended.

And when the morning came, the whole world glowed in colors brighter than any rainbow.

Because some loves don’t wait for the sky to clear. Some loves are the color after the rain.