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Chapter Text

Evan Buckley was still replaying the argument as he stepped into his loft—every word echoing as sharply as if the fluorescent lights of that shop were still blazing above him. 
Exhausting. 
He’s exhausting. 

Eddie had said it in a moment of frustration, but the words landed with surgical precision. 
Buck had been called worse before. 
He’d said worse to himself. 
But not from them. 
Not from the people he had stitched his life together with. 
Not when he was already frayed to threads. 

He closed the loft door carefully behind him. He didn’t slam doors anymore—he didn’t trust the way sharp noises cut through him, how anger left him feeling small rather than powerful. 

He set his keys on the counter. 
Placed his phone beside them. 
Tried to ignore the faint tremble in his hands. 

The loft felt wrong—quiet in a way that echoed. Empty without being peaceful. Like a place he lived in, but not one he belonged to. He stood still for a moment, letting the silence settle heavily around him, pressing at the edges of his ribs. 

He inhaled. 
The breath caught halfway. 
He tried again. 
Still wrong. 

Buck braced his palms on the counter, bowing his head as the disappointment lodged itself in his bones. The kind that felt taut—not sharp, but deep and lingering. 

He should have expected it. 
He should have known they’d get fed up. 
He had been exhausting lately. 

He let out a shaky breath and pushed himself upright. 

The walk down to the mailbox felt thick, like trudging through something that resisted every step. His trainers scuffed softly against the corridor floor. Lights flickered overhead in that unreliable way old buildings tended to have, and the hum of the lift machinery vibrated faintly in the walls. 

When he opened his mailbox, he expected takeaway menus, bills, maybe a parcel slip. 

He did not expect the stark white envelope stamped UNITED STATES NAVY across the top, his name printed neatly beneath it. 

His stomach dropped. 

Buck eased the envelope out. It was heavy—too many pages inside. His fingers went cold around the edges. 

He already knew what it was. 

He’d known for months that it was possible. 
He also knew they wouldn’t send this unless it was already decided. 

He slid a thumb under the seal and tore it open. 

RECALL TO ACTIVE DUTY 
EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY 
SEAL TEAM — CLASSIFIED 
REPORT TO CORONADO IN 120 HOURS 

He stared at the number until it blurred. 

One hundred and twenty hours. 
Five days. 

Five days, and then he was gone. 

A low, humourless laugh escaped him—thin, sharp, brittle. 

“Of course,” he murmured into the dim hallway. 

Of course the world would kick him again just when he was trying to stand. 
Of course the Navy would drag him back the moment he tried to piece together something resembling a life. 
A family. 
A home. 

He swallowed hard and clutched the papers tighter, knuckles whitening around the edges. 

He ought to tell someone. 
He ought to tell them. 

But his mind replayed the argument in the shop—Eddie’s tired voice, Bobby’s closed expression, Hen’s quiet disappointment, Chim’s uneasy silence—and something inside Buck pulled shut like a door slamming in a storm. 

No. 
Not now. 
Not like this. 
They didn’t need the burden of him. 
Not anymore. 

He stepped back into the loft, the deployment orders limp in his grip, the silence swallowing him whole. 

He was leaving. 

Again. 

Only this time… 
he wasn’t entirely sure anyone would notice he’d gone.

Buck didn’t remember walking back to his sofa. One moment he was closing the door behind him; the next he was sitting heavily on the edge of the cushions, the deployment papers spread across his knees like a verdict. 

Five days. 

Five days to disappear again. 
Five days to cut ties and vanish from the only life he’d truly tried to build. 

His vision blurred as he stared at the orders. The loft felt colder now, the air biting at his skin. He could feel his heartbeat in the tips of his fingers, in his throat, in the hollow behind his sternum. 

He lowered the papers onto the coffee table, flattening them with a hand that didn’t want to steady. 

He’d been through recalls before. 
He knew the process. 
He knew the cost. 

But he’d never had something to lose when they came for him. 

His gaze drifted around the loft—half-lived-in, half-storage space for a life he kept meaning to stabilise. Photos on the shelves. A jacket draped over a chair. The mug Eddie had accidentally left behind once, long ago, that Buck never returned because some small part of him liked seeing it there. 

He closed his eyes. 

He didn’t want to go. 

He hated that he didn’t have a choice. 

He rubbed his face with both hands, frustration prickling under his skin. His chest tightened again, the familiar weight of helplessness pressing down until breathing felt like labour. 

A soft, brittle sound escaped him—almost a sob, almost a laugh. 

What was he supposed to do now? 

Tell the 118? 
Tell Eddie? 

But the memory of Eddie’s voice in the shop slammed into him again. 
Exhausting. 
Said in annoyance, not affection. 
Said at a moment when Buck had needed anything else. 

Buck swallowed hard. 

No. 
He couldn’t talk to them. 
Not now. 
Not when he wasn’t sure he could take another hit like that. 

He forced himself to stand, pacing the length of the loft—tight, restless steps that barely made a sound. His thoughts flickered erratically: storage, gear, orders, HR, loose ends, goodbyes he wasn’t allowed to make. 

He dragged a hand through his hair. 

Goodbyes. 

His steps faltered. 

He hadn’t said goodbye to anyone the last time he left for deployment. 
He’d had no one to say it to. 

But now… 
now there were four kids who meant more to him than he’d ever expected. 

Christopher. 
Denny. 
Harry. 
May. 

Each one had carved themselves into his life. Into his heart. 

He couldn’t leave them without saying something. 
Even if he couldn’t face the adults, even if he couldn’t face Eddie— 
the kids deserved more than silence. 

He crossed the loft to his small desk, pulling out a battered notebook. The cover was frayed, pages half-filled with thoughts he never read twice. He flicked past old entries, gripping a pen tightly. 

His breath shook as he stared at the blank page. 

Writing goodbye letters made it real. 
Made the deployment concrete in a way the orders hadn’t yet. 

His throat tightened. 

He could almost see their faces. Christopher’s hopeful smile. Denny’s quiet trust. Harry’s effort to be brave. May’s resilience despite everything she’d been through. 

He blinked hard. 

He had to do this. 

He uncapped the pen. 

His hand hovered over the paper, hesitating for a long, wavering moment. Then he put the nib down and began to write the first name. 

Christopher. 

His vision blurred again. 

This was going to break him. 

He wrote anyway. 

Buck stared at the fresh page for a long time before he touched pen to paper. 
Just seeing Christopher’s name written at the top made something in his chest twist sharply. 

He swallowed. 

He loved that kid—more deeply than he had ever expected to love anyone. Not in the way he loved Eddie, not in the way he loved a partner, but in a way that felt… permanent. 
A son he didn’t have a right to call his. 
A boy who had become home without even trying. 

Buck’s hand shook. 

What did you say to a child you might never see again? 
How did you put something like that into words without shattering? 

He exhaled slowly and began writing. 

Hey, Chris, 

By the time you read this, I’ll already be gone for a bit. And before you worry—no, you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t miss anything. This isn’t your fault. None of this has anything to do with you being the brilliant, kind, funny, brave kid that you are. 

I’m being called away on something important, and I can’t say no to it. Not this time. 

I know this might sound familiar. 
Your dad had to leave once too, when you were little, and he didn’t want to go either. He told me once that saying goodbye to you was the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. I didn’t understand what he meant back then. 

I do now. 

And I know this is different—for both of us. 
I wasn’t in your life yet when he had to go, when it was your mum looking after you every day. But I am here now. And leaving you, even just for a while, hurts in a way I don’t really have the right words for. 

So instead, I’ll tell you what I want you to remember. 

You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met. I’ve seen you face things most adults would struggle with. When the tsunami hit, you didn’t panic—not even when everything around us was terrifying. You listened to me, trusted me, and together we made it out. I’ll never forget that day, because it showed me exactly who you are. 

You’re someone who doesn’t give up. 
Someone who keeps going even when things get hard. 
Someone I look up to more than you know. 

I promise I’m not leaving because I want to. If I had any choice at all, I would stay. But sometimes grown-ups have to do things that don’t feel fair, and I don’t want you thinking for even a second that I picked this over you. I didn’t. 

I will be thinking of you every single day. 
I will be carrying you with me wherever I go. 
And I am going to try my absolute hardest to come home. That’s a promise. 

While I’m away, look after your dad, yeah? He pretends he doesn’t need it, but he does. And he listens to you more than anyone else in the world. You’re his whole heart, and being near you makes him better. 

Listen to him. 
Let him look after you. 
Let him be proud of you. 

And if you ever feel scared, or worried, or confused about why I had to go—talk to him. He’ll understand, even if he doesn’t say everything out loud. 

Before I finish this, there’s something else I want you to know. Something important. 

Being part of your life has been one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. Getting to be someone you trust, someone you smile for, someone you call family—those have been some of my favourite days. You’ve made me feel wanted in ways I didn’t know I could be. 

Thank you for that, Christopher. 
Thank you for letting me be in your world. 

This isn’t goodbye forever. 
Just goodbye for now. 

I’ll come home. 
And when I do, we’re going to have pancakes, a movie night, and you can pick everything, even the terrible films. 

I love you, kiddo. 
More than I’ve ever been able to say out loud. 

Love, 
Buck 

Buck set the pen down and wiped at his face, surprised to find tears on his hands. He hadn’t even realised he’d been crying through half of it. The page wavered in his vision, the ink blurring where a few drops had fallen. 

He read it once. 
Then again. 

The words hurt. 
But leaving without them would have hurt far more. 

He folded the letter with careful precision, smoothing the creases, trying not to notice how the paper still felt damp in places. 

His chest ached. 

One down, he thought. 
Three more to go. 
Then— 
He hesitated. 

His mind drifted, inevitably, painfully, to Eddie. 

No. 
Not yet. 

He wasn’t ready to face that part. 
Not when just writing to Christopher had nearly broken him. 

He pushed the thought away and reached for another blank page. 

Buck took a steadying breath before pulling a fresh sheet of paper towards him. 
Christopher’s letter had taken something out of him — a deep emotional carving that still throbbed across his chest. And Denny… well, Denny was different. 

Not less important. 
Just a different kind of bond. 

Denny had always been a quiet presence around him, thoughtful in a way that made Buck soften. He admired that kid — his resilience, his kindness, the way he watched the world like he wanted to understand it rather than judge it. 

Buck also thought about Hen and Karen. 

Two parents who loved fiercely. 
Who protected their son with everything they had. 
Who had built a home overflowing with structure and warmth. 

He envied it sometimes — not in a jealous way, but with an ache of longing he never quite shook. 

He uncapped his pen and wrote Denny’s name at the top of the page, his handwriting a little unsteady but determined. 

Hey Denny, 

I’m writing this to you because something important is happening, and I didn’t want to leave without telling you myself. By the time you read it, I’ll be away for a while. I’m not able to say exactly where or why, but I want you to know I’ll be safe, and I’ll be doing something I’m trained for. 

I know you might be confused when you hear I’m gone. I haven’t been around the station as much lately, and things have been… difficult. But none of that has anything to do with you. 

I want you to remember something very clear: you’re an incredible kid, Denny. 

Every time I’ve been around you, you’ve shown this calm, thoughtful strength that most adults don’t have. You think things through. You listen when people talk. You notice things others miss. That’s a powerful thing — even if you don’t know it yet. 

I’ve always admired the family you have. Your mums love you so much. Hen fights for you with every beat of her heart, and Karen shows her love in ways that make everything feel steady. You’re growing up in a house full of honesty, strength, and real, unconditional love. It matters. More than you know. 

While I’m away, I want you to remember how safe you are with them. 
How supported. 
How cared for. 

If there’s something you’re unsure about, something you’re worried about, or if you just miss people more than you expect to — talk to them. They’ll listen. They always do. 

I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but I want you to know I’ll be thinking of all of you at the 118 — and that includes you. I’ve always enjoyed the moments we’ve spent together, even the quiet ones. Especially the quiet ones, actually. They tell me more about a person than any loud conversation ever could. 

You’ve got a good heart, Denny. A strong one. And you’re going to grow into an even better person than you already are — something I’m really glad I got to witness. 

I’ll come back when I can. 
And when I do, maybe we can all go out for ice cream again, and you can tell me everything I missed. 

Look after your mums. 
Look after yourself. 
And keep being the amazing person you are. 

Take care, 
Buck 

Buck set the pen down and blew out a slow breath. His eyes were tired, his chest tight, but this letter had been easier. Softer around the edges. 

It still hurt. 

All of this was going to hurt. 

He folded the letter carefully, pressing each crease until it lay neat and flat. He placed it beside Christopher’s, the two envelopes looking far too small to hold the pieces of his heart inside them. 

He rubbed at his face, tried to breathe around the ache that wouldn’t ease. 

Two letters written. 
Two goodbyes he hadn’t wanted to write. 

He stared at the blank page waiting beside him. 

Harry next. 

And after that… 
one he wasn’t ready for. 

One he wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready for. 

But the world wasn’t waiting. 
Time wasn’t waiting. 

He flexed his fingers, braced himself, and reached for the next sheet of paper. 

Buck tugged a fresh sheet of paper from the notebook and sat back for a moment, letting the silence settle. Writing to Christopher had wounded him; writing to Denny had softened him. But writing to Harry… that brought up something different altogether. 

Harry had never treated Buck like a hero. 
Or like someone extraordinary. 
He’d treated him like a bloke — someone to joke with, someone to challenge, someone he genuinely liked. 

Buck appreciated that more than he ever said. 

And then there was Harry’s family. 

Athena, who commanded respect without asking for it. 
Michael, who carried quiet strength and a fierce dedication to his kids. 
Together they had raised a boy who was sharper than he let on, braver than he realised, and more sensitive than people gave him credit for. 

Buck smiled faintly and touched the pen to paper. 

Hey Harry, 

By the time you get this, I’ll already be away on something I can’t really talk about. It’s not because of anything you said or did — it’s just part of a life I lived before you knew me, one that’s calling me back for a while. 

I wanted to write to you because we’ve shared a lot of good moments, and I didn’t want to disappear without saying anything. 

You’ve grown a lot in the time I’ve known you. Not just taller — though, honestly, you’re going to overtake all of us at this rate — but stronger in yourself. You’ve been through things kids shouldn’t have to face, and you’ve come out the other side with more determination than most grown-ups I know. 

That’s something to be proud of, Harry. 
I hope you know that. 

Your mum and dad have shaped you into someone who stands up for what’s right. Athena’s strength is something everyone sees. She’s brave in a way that inspires people. And your dad — Michael — he sees the world with clarity and kindness. That combination, coming from both of them, makes you one of the most grounded young men I’ve ever met. 

If I’m honest with you, I always liked that you didn’t treat me like anything special. You never expected me to be some sort of hero. You just saw me as… Buck. And sometimes that’s exactly what a person needs. So thank you for that. 

While I’m away, I want you to look after your sister. I know you do that already, but keep listening to her. She’s carrying a lot, even when she looks completely put together. You’ve always had good instincts about when someone’s struggling — trust them. 

And look after yourself, too. 
Let your parents support you. 
Let people show up for you. 
You don’t always have to be the one keeping things steady. 

I’ll be thinking of all of you while I’m gone. 
And when I get back, I expect you to beat me at whatever video game you’re currently obsessed with. I’m rubbish at them, but I’ll still pretend I have a chance. 

Take care of your family. 
Take care of you. 

See you when I’m back, 
Buck 

Buck set the pen down and exhaled slowly. Writing to Harry had stirred something quieter in him — not the devastation he’d felt with Christopher’s letter, nor the gentle ache left by Denny’s. Instead, it left him with a sense of stillness, a reminder of just how much these kids had grown, how much he’d seen them become. 

He folded the letter carefully, smoothing the edges until they were neat and straight, then placed it alongside the others. Three envelopes now sat on the table, each one small and painfully final in its own way. 

He ran a hand over his face. 

He wasn’t done yet. 

One more letter to write before the hardest part of all. 
One more goodbye he owed to a young woman who had seen far too much and carried even more. 

May. 

She deserved words that made sense. 
Words that would comfort her rather than burden her. 
Words that acknowledged everything she had survived. 

Buck reached for the next blank sheet of paper, his fingers lingering on it for a moment as he gathered himself. 

He angled the lamp closer, took a steadying breath, and wrote the first line of her name. 

May. 

Buck stared at the blank sheet of paper for a long time, letting the silence stretch between him and the page. Writing to May required a softer touch — thoughtful, careful, grounded. She wasn’t a child anymore, but she wasn’t fully grown either. She was someone on the edge of adulthood who’d already experienced more trauma than she should have. 

He didn’t see her during the tsunami. 
He hadn’t even known what she’d been doing until much later. 

But he remembered the look on Athena’s face afterwards — the mix of pride and fear. He remembered how Bobby spoke about it, his voice thick, reverent. He remembered how May herself had spoken about the woman in the car, her words steady but her eyes darker than they should’ve been at her age. 

May had climbed into that crushed vehicle. 
She’d wedged herself into the passenger seat beside a bleeding stranger. 
She’d pressed her hands to the woman’s neck, holding pressure against a wound that wouldn’t stop. 
She stayed with her — trapped together — talking to her, grounding her, refusing to leave even as the world outside fell apart. 

She’d been brave. 
And terrified. 
And changed by it. 

Buck felt a surge of protectiveness as he remembered it. 

He lifted his pen. 

Hi May, 

By the time you read this, I’ll already be gone for a little while. Things happened quickly, and I didn’t want you hearing about it without knowing I’d thought of you. 

I want to talk about something that still sits with you, even if you don’t always say it out loud — the day of the tsunami. 

I wasn’t there with you, and I didn’t see what happened. But I heard the full story afterwards. I heard how chaotic the roads were, how loud and terrifying everything became, how easy it would’ve been to freeze or run. 

And I heard what you did. 

You climbed into a wrecked car. 
You sat beside a woman who couldn’t move. 
You pressed a cloth to her neck to stop the bleeding and refused to let go. 
You talked to her — even though your voice was shaking — and you stayed there with her, trapped together, until help finally reached you both. 

Most teenagers wouldn’t have done that. 
Most adults wouldn’t have done that. 

What you did wasn’t small. 
It mattered. 
It showed exactly who you are. 

But I also know it wasn’t easy. Moments like that don’t just end when the danger passes. They stay with you — in flashes, in echoes, in quiet worries that creep back in when the world goes still. 

You’ve probably had nights where the memory catches you off guard. 
You’ve probably wondered if you said the right thing. 
Or if you should’ve felt less scared. 
Or if you did enough. 

Let me answer that last one clearly: 

You did. 
More than enough. 

Feeling shaken afterwards doesn’t make you weak. 
It makes you human. 

Healing isn’t linear — it loops, dips, and sometimes stings again. That doesn’t mean you’re going backwards. It just means what you lived through was real. 

And you don’t have to carry that alone. 

Your mum loves you fiercely. Your dad does too. And Harry, your little brother, watches you with that mixture of awe and mischief only siblings have. The people around you want to help — let them. You don’t have to be the strong one all the time just because you were strong once when it counted. 

There is so much ahead of you, May. 
So much life. 
So many choices and dreams and bright days that haven’t happened yet. 

And I hope you chase every single one of them. 

When I get back, I’d like to hear about all of it — your plans, your goals, the things you’re excited for, even the things that scare you a bit. You’re becoming someone remarkable, not because of what you survived, but because of who you choose to be next. 

Look after yourself. 
And let the people who love you look after you too. 

With all my respect, 
Buck 

Buck set the pen down with a quiet exhale. The four folded letters lay in a neat row on the table — Christopher, Denny, Harry, May. Four pieces of his heart. Four goodbyes he hadn’t wanted to write. 

His chest tightened. 

He rubbed at his temples, willing the ache to ease, but the pressure only grew heavier. 

One more letter. 
Except… this one wasn’t like the others. 

This wasn’t a goodbye to a child. 
This wasn’t reassurance or encouragement. 

This was truth. 
Raw. 
Dangerous. 
Necessary. 

He glanced at the remaining blank sheet of paper. 

His stomach twisted painfully. 

He wasn’t supposed to write to Eddie. 
He wasn’t sure Eddie would even want him to. 
Not after everything. 
Not after Eddie had called him exhausting. 
Not after the distance that had grown like a fault line between them. 

He pushed the blank page away. 

Then pulled it back. 

Then shoved it aside again. 

His thoughts spun. 

If you die, he’ll never know. 
If you don’t say anything now, you never will. 
If you leave without telling him the truth, you’ll regret it with your last breath. 

Buck’s throat tightened to the point of pain. 

He stood abruptly, pacing as if movement might drown out the thoughts clawing at him. 

“No,” he muttered. “Not him. Not now.” 

But even as he said it, he knew. 

He had already made the decision 
—simply by trying so hard not to. 

With a trembling breath, he sat again, pulled the blank sheet toward him, and stared at it until his vision blurred. 

He wasn’t ready. 

But he would write it. 

And it would break him. 

The loft felt too still. 
Not the quiet of rest — the quiet of emptiness, of absence, of a space waiting for something that wasn’t coming back. 

Buck sat at the table with a blank sheet of paper in front of him. The pen felt heavy between his fingers, weighted with decisions he didn’t want to make. He’d written four letters already. Four goodbyes he’d never imagined needing to say. 

But this one… 
This one wasn’t supposed to happen. 

His stomach twisted painfully. 

He shouldn’t write to Eddie. 
He didn’t owe Eddie anything. 
Eddie probably didn’t want to hear from him anyway — not after the words thrown in that shop. 

Exhausting. 

The memory made his chest seize. 

He closed his eyes, trying to force down the ache, but the thought pressed up again: 

If you don’t come back, he’ll never know the truth. 
He’ll never know what he meant to you. 
He’ll never know why you pulled away, why you kept quiet, why you didn’t fight harder for your place beside him. 

Buck clenched his jaw. 

“No,” he muttered. “I’m not doing this. Not him.” 

But even as he said it, his hand moved automatically, dragging the paper closer. 

He didn’t know what he was more afraid of: 

Writing the letter. 
Or not writing it. 

Because if he deployed and didn’t return — 
and the possibility sat cold and sharp in his chest — 
then Eddie would never know the truth about any of it. 

The truth about why Buck had spiralled. 
The truth about the lawsuit he cancelled. 
The truth about how deeply he cared. 
The truth about the feeling that had lodged in his ribs for months, aching whenever Eddie smiled at him, softened around him, trusted him with the most precious part of his life. 

His love. 

He swallowed hard. 

He’d never said it. 
Never dared to. 
Never expected anything back. 

But deployment meant uncertainty. 
It meant danger. 
It meant he might not walk back into his life again. 

And Buck couldn’t face the idea of dying with the truth trapped behind his teeth. 

He gripped the pen. 

“Fine,” he whispered. “Just… try.” 

He touched the pen to the page and began writing. 

Eddie, 

I’m not really sure how to do this, or if I should even be writing this at all. Things between us have been… strained, and maybe you don’t want to hear from me. But I’m being sent away for a bit, and I didn’t want to disappear without saying something. 

I’m sorry for everything. For the arguments. For being difficult lately. For making things harder when I know you’ve already got so much on your plate. I never meant to be exhausting or— 

He hesitated. 
The pen trembled. 

The words felt wrong. 
Thin. 
Dishonest. 

He forced himself to continue. 

I just want you to know I’m grateful — for your patience, for always trying, for everything you’ve done, even when things got messy— 

Buck stopped again. 

His stomach churned. 

This wasn’t right. 
This wasn’t even close. 
This wasn’t him. 

It was the version of himself he shrank into when he thought he wasn’t worth keeping — the apologetic, quiet Buck who tried to make himself small enough not to bother anyone. 

He hated that version. 

He hated that Eddie had seen glimpses of him lately. 

He hated that this letter didn’t say anything true. 

With a harsh exhale, he tore it from the notebook, crushed it into his fist, and tossed it to the floor. The ball of paper bounced once, rolling to a stop near the sofa. 

Buck pressed both hands over his face. 

His breath hitched. 

He tried to swallow it down, but the pressure behind his ribs kept climbing, tightening, burning. His eyes stung, and he blinked hard, but that only made the first tear break loose. 

He bowed his head, shoulders rounding. 

“This is stupid,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I shouldn’t be doing this. He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need me.” 

But another voice rose up beneath the panic — soft, relentless. 

You need this. 
You need him to know. 
You need to tell him before it’s too late. 

Buck’s breath shook. 

He didn’t want to think about not coming home. But he’d lived the kind of life where people didn’t always get second chances. 
He’d lost teammates before. 
He knew the risk. 
He knew the cost. 

He couldn’t leave without telling Eddie the truth. 

Even if Eddie never felt the same. 
Even if Eddie never spoke to him again. 
Even if the letter broke everything beyond repair. 

Buck wiped his face roughly with the back of his hand. 

He reached for a new sheet of paper — slower this time, more deliberate. His hands trembled around the edges. 

He wasn’t ready. 

But he was out of time. 

He lowered the pen to the page. 

When he started writing this time, he didn’t hold anything back. 

Buck sat very still. 

The blank page in front of him felt heavier than any weight he’d ever carried. Not his bunker gear. Not the water rising around him during rescues. Not even the knowledge that in five days, he would vanish into a world he had fought so hard to leave behind. 

No — this page was heavier because it demanded the truth. 
The whole of it. 
The part he’d never dared to say aloud. 

He held the pen between trembling fingers. 
Then he began to write. 

Eddie, 

I’m not going to lie — this is the hardest letter I’ve ever tried to write. I don’t even know how to start it properly, except to say that I didn’t want to go without telling you the truth. All of it. 

You deserve that much. 

I’m being deployed. You’ll probably find that out soon enough, but by the time you read this, I’ll already be gone. I wish I could’ve told you in person. I wish we weren’t… whatever we’ve become recently. Strained. Distant. Hurting in ways neither of us seems able to fix. 

Before I say anything else, I need to tell you the truth about the lawsuit. 

I never sued the 118. 
I never sued the department. 
I never would have. 

It was only against Bobby. 
For keeping me from coming back to work when the doctors said I was cleared. 

That’s the truth. 
It was never about you. Or Hen. Or Chim. Or the station. It was never a betrayal. It was fear. Hurt. Feeling like my place had been taken away from me when it was the only place I thought I belonged. 

When you stood in that courtroom and heard it, I know how it must have looked. And I hate that. I hate that it made you question me. I hate that it hurt you. I hate that it made you see me as someone capable of turning on my family. 

I’ve told my lawyer to withdraw it. He tells me he has. 
As far as I know, it was gone. 

I need you to know that. 

And I need you to know something else, something harder. 

After Abby left, I thought I’d go back to being the person I was before her. Short-term everything. Names I didn’t remember. Doors I didn’t expect to walk back through the next morning. I thought that was all I was worth, and I thought it was the only kind of life that made sense for me. 

But then there was you. 

And Chris. 

And somehow… I didn’t want any of that anymore. 
I didn’t want empty nights. 
I didn’t want temporary anything. 

I wanted— 
Well, I wanted a life that made sense. 
A family that felt like mine even if it wasn’t. 
A place where I didn’t have to pretend I was fine. 

You made me feel like I could be better. 
Chris made me feel like I already was. 

I know you’re still grieving Shannon. I know that losing her wasn’t something you just “move on” from. I know what she meant to you — and I respect it. I respect her. I respect the life you built with her. 

This letter isn’t me asking for anything. 
Not a relationship. 
Not an answer. 
Not a future. 

I’m not expecting you to feel the same way. 
And honestly, I’m not sure what I’d do if you did. 

But I’m going into a situation where there’s a chance I won’t come home. 
You know what deployment is like. 
You know the risks better than anyone. 

And the thought that I might die without telling you the truth has been tearing me apart tonight. 

So here it is. 
The only truth that matters. 
The one I can’t take with me. 

I love you. 

Not the way I love the rest of the team. 
Not the way I love the kids. 
Not even the way I thought I loved Abby. 

I love you in a way that scares me. 
In a way that steadied me when everything else was falling apart. 
In a way I never said, because I didn’t want to ruin the best thing in my life. 

You don’t have to feel the same. 
You don’t have to do anything with this. 
You don’t even have to read past this sentence if it hurts you. 

I just needed you to know before I go. 

If I come back… 
well, we’ll figure out what comes next. 
Or we won’t. 
But at least the truth won’t be buried with me. 

Look after Chris. 
Look after yourself. 

Goodbye, at least for now. 
Buck 

Buck stared at the finished letter, chest tight and aching. The words felt unreal on the page, too raw, too final. His hands shook as he folded the paper, creasing it carefully, almost reverently. 

Only then did he notice the tear stains. 

His tears. 
Blurring the ink. 
Soaking the paper at the edges. 

The sight of them broke him. 

His breath hitched sharply. 
Then again. 
Then the first sob tore free — raw, strangled — and he couldn’t stop the second, or the third, or any that followed. 

He folded over the table, face buried in his hands as the sobs wracked through him — hot, painful, uncontrollable. His shoulders trembled. His lungs seized. Every breath felt like a wound. 

He had written the truth. 
And it hurt more than he’d imagined. 

He cried until his throat burned and his vision blurred, until the grief inside him had nowhere left to go. Sliding off the chair, he curled against the side of the sofa, clutching his shirt over his chest. 

“This is stupid,” he gasped between sobs. “Why did I write it? Why didn’t I just— just leave it—” 

But even through the heartbreak, he knew. 

Because he might die out there. 
Because Eddie deserved the truth. 
Because he couldn’t bear to take those words with him unspoken. 

Minutes passed. 
Or hours — he couldn’t tell. 

Slowly, the sobs quietened into shaky breaths. His face was wet, his eyes swollen, his body exhausted. He dragged a hand through his hair and forced himself upright. 

He reached for the envelope — edges warped, ink blurred — and held it against his chest. 

It was done. 
It was written. 
It was too late to take it back. 

He placed the letter beside the others, his fingers lingering on it for a final moment. 

Then, barely above a whisper, he said: 

“That’s it. No more running.” 

And he drew a long, shaky breath. 

The hardest truth of his life was on paper now. 
The rest of the night — the rest of his five days — would start from here. 

Morning arrived long before Buck wanted it to. 
He hadn’t slept so much as drifted — shallow, restless lapses filled with half-dreams that dissolved each time he remembered the letter on the table. Eddie’s letter. The one that had gutted him to write. 

His eyes felt gritty, too sore to hide the evidence of the night before. 
But the morning didn’t care. 

He got dressed mechanically — jeans, a plain shirt, boots — clothes that felt like armour more than anything else. Something to hold him together long enough to get through today. 

On the kitchen table, the five envelopes lay where he’d left them. 
Christopher. 
Denny. 
Harry. 
May. 
Eddie. 

He stared at them for a long moment, his throat tight. 

These weren’t just letters. 
They were the last pieces of himself he’d chosen to leave behind. 

He swallowed hard and slid all five envelopes into the inside pocket of his rucksack — close to his chest, where he could feel their weight. He wasn’t ready to deliver any of them yet, but he needed to keep them with him. Needed to know they were there. 

He grabbed his deployment orders. 

He grabbed his keys. 

He left the loft without looking back.

The headquarters building felt colder than usual — or maybe he felt colder moving through it. He kept his eyes on the floor, the letters weighing heavily against his chest with each step. 

The receptionist gave a small, sympathetic nod and directed him to HR. He wished she wouldn’t look at him like that. He wished no one would. 

He stepped into the same small, windowless office where countless administrative meetings had happened over the years. Now it felt claustrophobic. Punishing. 

A woman entered a moment later — tablet in hand, expression carefully professional. 

“Evan Buckley?” 

He nodded. 

“I’m Teresa. I understand you’re here to discuss your employment status.” 

Buck handed her the deployment orders. “I’m resigning.” 

She read the papers with steady eyes. “You’re being recalled. Navy SEAL active-duty reactivation — effective immediately.” 

“Didn’t get much of a choice,” he murmured. 

“No,” she agreed softly. “You didn’t.” 

She set the papers aside. 

“Before we accept your resignation, I need to review the status of your open legal filing.” 

Buck frowned. “There isn’t one.” 

Teresa looked at him as gently as she could. “There is.” 

He froze. “No. No — I told my lawyer to withdraw it. He told me he’d taken care of it.” 

She inhaled slowly. “Evan… the withdrawal was never filed. The suit remained active.” 

His stomach dropped like a stone. 
“He lied to me.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “But with the filing still active, the city processed the settlement this morning when the deadline for your answer passed.” 

Buck felt sick. “I wasn’t suing the department. Or the 118. It was only Bobby — for not letting me come back after I was cleared.” 

“I know,” she said. “That’s reflected in the paperwork.” 

He rubbed a hand over his face, breath unsteady. 
“This isn’t what I wanted. I didn’t want money. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I just—” 
He stopped, words failing. 

Teresa continued carefully. 
“The settlement was conditional. Your resignation triggers it automatically.” 

He laughed — brittle, hollow. 
“Brilliant. Paperwork sorted. People ruined.” 

She hesitated. 
“The settlement amount is five million, two hundred and thirty thousand dollars.” 

The number didn’t register at first. 
When it did, it hit him like he’d been struck. 

A price tag. 
On belonging. 
On family. 
On everything he’d fought so hard to be part of. 

His voice cracked. “I never asked for that.” 

“I know.” 

He steadied himself on the edge of the chair. 

After a long moment, he forced himself to ask the one question that mattered: 

“If I come back… can I reapply? To the department?” 

Teresa’s expression shifted — regret clouding her features. 

“Evan… please sit.” 

He didn’t. He stood very still, bracing himself. 

“When a resignation is tied to a settlement,” she said gently, “the employment relationship closes permanently.” 

He stared at her. 

“Permanently — as in I can’t come back. Ever.” 

“Yes,” she said softly. “You would not be eligible for reinstatement.” 

His throat tightened painfully. 

“So even if I patched things up…” 
His voice shook. 
“Even if nothing else had gone wrong… I still wouldn’t be allowed back.” 

Teresa nodded once. 

He looked down at his boots — unable to look anywhere else. 

“Do they know?” he asked quietly. 

“No. Settlement terms are confidential. Only you can tell them.” 

A long silence stretched between them. 

When he finally moved, it was slow, mechanical. He forced his legs to carry him to the door. But he stopped before stepping out. 

“If I come back…” he said softly, “…I don’t know if the people I love will still want me there.” 

Teresa didn’t offer false comfort. 
Instead, she said the only thing that wasn’t a lie: 

“Come back anyway.” 

Buck closed his eyes, swallowing back the burn in his chest. 

He nodded once. 
And walked out. 

The hallway seemed colder. 
The world seemed smaller. 

The five letters pressed against his chest as he left — a painful reminder of the lives he was saying goodbye to. 

He would deliver them later. 
After the storage unit. 
After he gathered the rest of his gear. 

After he found the strength to keep moving. 

Because now he knew the truth: 

He wasn’t just deploying. 

He was leaving behind the only home he had ever built. 

Buck made it out of LAFD Headquarters before the tears started. 

He didn’t cry in the lift. 
He didn’t cry walking through the lobby. 
He didn’t cry crossing the car park. 

His body moved in a kind of numb autopilot, his mind buzzing with static, every thought slipping away before it fully formed. It wasn’t until he shut the door of his truck — the click of it too sharp, too final — that something inside him finally gave out. 

He dropped his forehead to the steering wheel. 

And broke. 

His breath stuttered hard, catching in his throat as a choked sound escaped him — the kind of sound that came from somewhere deep, somewhere wounded. His hands curled tightly into fists against the wheel, knuckles blanching as he fought for control he didn’t have. 

Five million pounds. 
Permanent separation from the LAFD. 
The dissolution of everything he’d fought for. 
Everything he’d built. 
Everything he loved. 

And worst of all — 

They thought he’d done it on purpose. 
That he’d taken money. 
That he’d abandoned them. 

He dragged in a shaky breath, pressing his palms hard against his eyes. The letters in his bag felt like they were burning through the fabric, heavy with everything he’d lose once he delivered them. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there — a minute, five, ten — before the grief simmered into something sharper. Hotter. More focused. 

Anger. 

Not at the department. 
Not at the team. 
Not even at Bobby. 

At Chase Mackey. 

The one man who’d sworn he’d handled it. 
The one man Buck had trusted to withdraw the lawsuit. 
The one man who’d lied straight to his face. 

Buck inhaled shakily and sat upright. 

“No,” he whispered, jaw clenched. “No. Not this time.” 

He turned the engine over, gripping the wheel so tightly his hands trembled. 

He was done being lied to. 
Done being manipulated. 
Done being made a fool of. 

Chase Mackey was going to explain himself — today. 

Buck pulled out of the car park and drove. 

The law offices were housed in one of those polished, modern buildings with mirrored windows and a too-bright reception area that smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee. Buck walked through it like a storm barely contained in human form. 

The receptionist looked up. 
“Hi, do you have an appoi—” 

“No,” Buck said, voice low, cracking with fury he barely restrained. “But I need to see Chase Mackey. Now.” 

Something in his expression — the shaking hands, the reddened eyes, the exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin — made her falter. She didn’t argue. 

“One moment, Mr Buckley.” 

She disappeared down the corridor. 

Thirty seconds later, Chase appeared in the doorway of his office, wearing that smooth, polished smile he used in court and on billboards. 

“Buck,” he said brightly. “Didn’t expect to see you. Everything alright?” 

Buck’s vision went white at the edges. 

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. 

The door clicked shut behind them. 

“You lied to me.” 

Chase blinked, caught off guard by the cold, precise rage in Buck’s voice. “Sorry?” 

Buck took a step closer, hands trembling at his sides. 
“You lied to me about withdrawing the lawsuit.” 

“Buck, slow down—” 

“No,” Buck snapped. “You don’t get to tell me to slow down. You told me it was handled. You told me you filed the paperwork. You told me I didn’t need to worry about it anymore. And the whole time—it was still active.” 

Chase’s expression tightened into something cautious. “Buck, legally speaking, withdrawing the case would have weakened your position—” 

“Don’t you dare dress this up as legal strategy.” Buck’s voice cracked on the words. “You didn’t withdraw it because you never intended to. Because you wanted the settlement. Because you wanted the win. Because it looked good for you.” 

Chase exhaled through his nose, clearly irritated. “Look, you’re emotional right now—” 

Buck let out a hollow laugh. “You think this is me being emotional?” 

He stepped in close enough that Chase took a half-step back. 

“You’re meant to be my lawyer. My advocate. My representative. And if you’d done even the slightest bit of research on your client, you’d have known one very important thing.” 

Buck’s eyes were burning now — not with tears, but with something sharp, something dangerous. 

“I’m a retired Navy SEAL.” 

Chase froze. 

Buck continued, voice low and controlled — the kind of voice that came from someone who had seen war, survived it, and learned exactly how far people could be pushed. 

“And if you’d known that… you would have known not to lie to me. Not to manipulate me. Not to make decisions that destroy my life without my consent.” 

Chase swallowed. 

Buck leaned in just enough to make sure Chase heard every word. 

“I’m being deployed for up to two years. I won’t be here. I won’t have the time to chase you through every court in existence. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that means you’re safe. Even from overseas… things can still get done. You understand me?” 

Chase’s face paled. “Buck—” 

“No,” Buck said, straightening. “You don’t get to say my name like you still have any right to it.” 

He took a breath, steady but trembling at the edges. 

“You lied to me. You ruined my career. You made my family think I betrayed them. And you did it because you thought I’d be too stupid or too loyal to ever find out.” 

Chase opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. 

Buck nodded — one sharp, final movement. 

“We’re done.” 

Then he turned and left the office, leaving Chase pale and speechless behind him. 

Buck pulled into the storage facility still shaking faintly, the confrontation with Chase burning in his chest like acid. He sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel until his hands stopped trembling, or at least until the tremors faded to something manageable. 

The letters were still in his bag. 
Humming against his ribs like a heartbeat that wasn’t his. 

He swallowed hard, climbed out of the truck, and keyed in his unit code, he’ll change that to Chris's birthday in case anyone guesses it’s Maddie's currently. 

The metal door rattled upwards. 

Cold, dry air seeped out — the scent of dust and sealed memories. Everything he’d put away when he’d walked away from the SEALs felt frozen in time, waiting for him to return even though he never truly believed he would. 

He stepped inside. 

Most of the space held boxes, neatly labelled from the last time he’d tried to organise his life. But towards the back sat one trunk. Metal. Heavy. Scuffed from years of deployments. 

His name was still stencilled across the top. 
BUCKLEY, E. 

He stared at it for a long moment before kneeling and cracking the latches open. 

The lid creaked. 

Inside lay the gear he swore he’d never touch again. 

His uniform. 
Combat boots. 
Webbing. 
The last rifle strap he’d used. 
A ball cap with a faded unit patch. 

And there — folded with a precision that made his breath catch — was the American flag presented to him after his final active deployment. It sat atop the rest of the gear like a ghost of a life he had buried. A reminder of the men he buried. 

He touched it with trembling fingers. 

He’d forgotten how heavy patriotism felt when you didn’t survive it with everyone else. 

He lifted the flag carefully, setting it aside. 

Underneath were smaller items — personal ones. Things he hadn’t been able to throw away. 

He froze when he saw the next two objects. 

A SEAL team challenge coin — the one they’d all received together. The one meant to symbolise brotherhood, survival, unity. 

Except most of them hadn’t survived. 

Buck swallowed hard, picking it up. The metal was cold, the edges sharp, the insignia worn smooth where he used to rub it absentmindedly during briefings. 

Next to it lay a laminated photograph. 

A picture of his team — all of them crowded together, sweating under desert sun, grinning with arms slung around shoulders. 

Buck’s hand shook violently as he lifted it. 
His thumb brushed over the faces. 

All but two were dead. 
KIA. 
Gone. 

Only him and Smooth Dog were left. 

His breath broke. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the tears still pushed their way through, falling silently onto the plastic. 

“Jesus,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t… I can’t do this again.” 

He bowed his head over the trunk, shoulders shaking, grief pulling him under for a moment. Not loud like last night — this was quieter, older, a wound he’d never let heal. 

After a long minute, he sat back, wiping his face with the heel of his hand. 

He set the coin and photo aside gently, keeping them out rather than burying them again. 

Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and scrolled to a contact he had never expected to use again. 

STEVE ‘SMOOTH DOG’ McGARRETT 

Buck’s thumb hovered over the contact name for a moment before he forced himself to press call. 

It rang twice. 

“Buck?” Steve answered immediately, voice sharp, alert. “That you, brother?” 

“Yeah,” Buck breathed. “It’s me.” 

A weighted silence followed — the kind made of history neither of them liked touching. 

“You calling means one thing,” Steve said quietly. “You got your orders.” 

“Yeah. Five days. San Diego.” 

Steve hissed between his teeth. “Five days? They’re not even pretending to give you prep time.” 

Buck let out a hollow, humourless laugh. “Since when did they ever give proper prep time?” 

“Fair point.” 

Buck scrubbed a hand over his face and glanced into the trunk of gear. “Steve… none of this fits anymore.” 

“What doesn’t?” 

“My gear. My uniforms. Boots. Everything. It’s all too small or too old or both. I—” He swallowed. “Am I supposed to report in civvies?” 

Steve didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Go in civvies. They’ll re-kit you as soon as you check in. Coronado’s used to guys coming back in with whatever life left them wearing.” 

Buck let out a shaky breath. “Alright.” 

“And don’t stress the gear,” Steve added. “Half the lads turn up looking like they crawled out of a charity shop on day one. You won’t stand out.” 

Buck’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Thanks.” 

There was a small pause. 
Then Buck asked the question he’d been holding in his chest since the orders arrived. 

“Steve… am I reporting to you? Are you gonna be my CO again?” 

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full of things neither of them wanted to say. 

Eventually Steve inhaled slowly. 

“No, Buck. Not this time.” 

Buck’s heart sank a fraction. “Right.” 

“You know why,” Steve continued, voice gentler than before. “Five-0 took me off active deployment lists a long time ago. They keep trying to tempt me back but—” 
He exhaled. “My war ended. Yours was supposed to.” 

Buck swallowed. “So who am I under?” 

“I’ll send you the name,” Steve said. “Good man. Competent. Solid. But he’s not me, and you need to be ready for that. You’re stepping back into a world that’s changed since you left.” 

Buck nodded, staring at the laminated photo in his hand. “Everything’s changed.” 

Steve seemed to hear the shift in his voice. 
“Listen to me — you report in, you keep your head down, you get through whatever mission they’re stupid enough to pull you back for.” 

“That easy, huh?” 

“No,” Steve said quietly. “Not easy. Never easy. But you’re still one of the best men I ever served with. And if they’ve dragged you back, it’s because they need someone exactly like that.” 

Buck didn’t respond immediately. 

“Steve…” His voice cracked. “Everyone else is gone.” 

“I know.” 

“It’s just us.” 

“I know,” Steve repeated, softer. “And that’s why you come home. You hear me? You’re not allowed to leave me the last one standing.” 

Buck’s breath shook. “I’ll try.” 

“No,” Steve said firmly. “You do. You come home. That’s a direct order, Buckley.” 

Buck let out a broken exhale. “Copy that.” 

“I’ll send the details. And Buck?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Whatever pulled you back into this… survive it.” 

The call ended with a soft click. 

Buck stared at his phone, knuckles white, the past and future pressing hard against him from both sides. 

Buck closed the boot of his truck with a dull, final thud. 

His old SEAL gear sat neatly packed inside — newly relevant after years of gathering dust. It made him feel unsteady, like he was watching his past and future collapse into the same point. 

He rubbed a hand over his face. 

One thing at a time. 

He climbed into the driver’s seat, the bag on the passenger side heavy with the weight of five goodbyes he still hadn’t delivered. The letters felt warmer now — as though every heartbeat was pulsing against them. 

He drove in silence. 

Not the kind of silence that soothed. 
The kind that left room for thinking — which was dangerous. 

He tried to focus on the road. 
On the tasks he could control. 

Deliver the letters. 
Get home. 
Pretend he wasn’t falling apart. 

Buck parked a short distance from the Grant-Nash home, engine ticking as it cooled. 

He didn’t get out immediately. He sat there gripping the steering wheel, trying to gather himself. He knew Athena or Bobby could be home. He knew that seeing them — or worse, being seen by them — would break something inside him he couldn’t afford to shatter yet. 

He reached into his bag, thumb brushing the edges of the two envelopes. 

May Grant. 
Harry Grant. 

He swallowed. 

“Alright,” he murmured to himself. “Just… do it.” 

He stepped out, walked up the path, and stood at the front door without knocking. Instead, he slid both envelopes quietly through the letterbox, listening to the soft flutter as they landed on the floor inside. 

The sound hit him harder than he expected. 

A goodbye to two young people who had survived horrors of their own. 
Goodbye to the girl who’d held a dying woman’s life together with her bare hands. 
Goodbye to the boy whose world had fractured and reformed again and again. 

He stepped back, exhaled shakily, and turned away before he could lose his nerve. 

He drove to a quiet street corner several blocks away, the kind of place no one looked twice at a man standing alone with an envelope. 

Buck held Denny’s letter for a moment — picturing the kid’s smile, the shy way he hovered around the firehouse, the way he’d once asked him, with complete seriousness, whether firefighters got paid extra for running into danger. 

Buck had laughed. 
Hen had rolled her eyes with affection. 
Karen had smiled that small, knowing smile she gave when she saw her son forming attachments. 

He slipped the letter into the post box. 
It dropped with a soft metallic echo. 

Buck closed his eyes. 

Three letters gone. 
Two left. 

He didn’t reach for the remaining envelopes. 
He couldn’t. 

Christopher’s letter sat in his bag like a living thing — warm, fragile, achingly important. Eddie’s letter was beside it, heavier despite being made of the same paper, the same ink. 

Those two would go together. 
A father and son. 
Two pieces of Buck’s heart he wasn’t ready to let go of yet. 

He rested a hand over the pocket where they were tucked away. 

“Not yet,” he whispered. 

Buck climbed back into the truck. 

He didn’t start the engine straight away. 

His breath was unsteady again, his chest tight with the weight of everything he’d written, everything he couldn’t say out loud. He leaned back in the seat, staring up at the roof of the cab as if the answers might be written there. 

Tomorrow he would tell Christopher. 
Then Eddie. 

Or… maybe Eddie would find out first. 

He closed his eyes, unaware that at that very moment, inside the Grant-Nash home, one of his letters was already being found. 

And one of the people he feared losing most was about to learn the truth. 

Buck didn’t sleep much that night. 

He lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of two envelopes burning a hole through the inside pocket of his rucksack. Christopher’s letter. Eddie’s letter. The two that mattered most. The two he had put off delivering because handing them over felt too much like accepting the end. 

He turned onto his side, exhaled slowly, and finally forced himself upright. 

He couldn’t leave without giving them these. 
He couldn’t go without saying goodbye. 

By late morning, he was standing at the edge of the Diaz driveway, boots planted on familiar concrete, heart battering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. 

The house looked the same as always. 
Warm. 
Lived-in. 
Safe. 

A home he’d been welcome in a thousand times, but suddenly felt too fragile to step towards. 

He reached into his bag with a trembling hand. 

Two envelopes. 

Christopher Diaz. 
Eddie. 

His thumb brushed the writing on Eddie’s name — shaky, uneven, written in a moment he wasn’t sure he’d survive. 

Buck swallowed, forcing himself to breathe. 

He walked up the drive. 

The neighbourhood was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of traffic. He hesitated at the front door for a long moment, emotions thick in his throat. 

He couldn’t knock. 
He didn’t trust himself to stand there if Eddie answered. 
He didn’t trust himself not to fall apart. 

So instead, he crouched and slid both envelopes carefully through the letterbox, watching them disappear inside the warm, familiar house. 

Just like that. 
He’d said goodbye. 

Buck inhaled sharply, blinking hard against the sting in his eyes. 

“Goodbye for now,” he whispered — not knowing that Eddie would read the words hours later, not knowing how deeply they would cut. 

He straightened, backed away, and forced himself to turn around. 

He didn’t look back at the house. 
He couldn’t. 

He climbed into his truck, started the engine, and drove away — not realising that Eddie and Christopher would find the letters just a few hours later, not realising that those letters would send them running straight to him. 

Eddie found the envelopes on the doormat when he stepped into the house with Christopher that afternoon. 

Two envelopes— 
Both in Buck’s handwriting. 

He froze. 

The first one was addressed to Christopher Diaz, Buck’s uneven scrawl familiar enough to make Eddie’s stomach twist. 

The second envelope simply read: 

Eddie. 

No surname. 
No formality. 
Just his name, written the way Buck always wrote it. 

Eddie’s chest tightened. 

Buck hadn’t spoken to any of them since the blow-up in the shop. Not a call. Not a text. Nothing. 
And none of them had tried to contact him either — not because they didn’t care, but because they couldn’t. With the lawsuit still active, Bobby had insisted on complete separation. No contact until HR gave the all-clear. No interference. No risk of making anything worse. 

So this — two letters, delivered quietly through the door — was the first word from Buck in weeks. 

And Buck didn’t write letters unless something was very, very wrong. 

“Dad?” Christopher asked softly. “Are those from Buck?” 

Eddie cleared his throat. “Yeah, mijo. One’s for you.” 

He handed Christopher his envelope carefully, as if it were fragile. It felt fragile — as though whatever was inside would change something fundamental. 

“Go sit on the sofa,” Eddie said gently. “We’ll read them together.” 

Christopher nodded and wheeled himself into the living room, settling into his corner of the sofa with a nervous glance at the envelope. 

Eddie sat beside him, his own letter feeling heavier than it should. 
He didn’t open it. 
Not yet. 

Christopher looked up at him, worry shining in his eyes. 
“Why would Buck write us letters?” 

Eddie forced a breath he didn’t feel. 
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But we’ll read them together, and then we’ll know.” 

Christopher nodded and opened his envelope with trembling fingers. 

Christopher read slowly, his lips silently forming words as he followed the lines across the page. Eddie watched his expression shift — confusion, then worry, then something far more painful. 

“Dad…” Christopher whispered. “He says… he says he’s going away.” 

Eddie’s body went cold. “What?” 

Christopher held out the letter with both hands. 
“He says… he’s being deployed. Like you were.” 

Eddie’s stomach dropped. 

“He can’t go,” Christopher said suddenly, voice cracking. “He can’t, Dad. Not Buck. He promised— he said he’d always—” 
His breath hitched and he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. 
“Why would he leave?” 

Eddie pulled his son into his arms before the sob fully broke free. 

“I know,” Eddie murmured, trying to keep his own voice steady. “I know, mijo.” 

Christopher shook against him. “It’s not fair.” 

No. 
It wasn’t. 

Buck had been more than a family friend. More than a colleague. 
He had been… everything. 
To both of them. 

“You’re going to see him,” Eddie promised. “Before he goes. I swear it.” 

Christopher sniffed hard, nodding into Eddie’s shirt. 

Only once his son’s breathing started to even out did Eddie open his own letter. 

Buck’s handwriting was messy, emotional, unmistakably him. 

Eddie read the first line. 
Then the second. 
By the third, he had forgotten how to breathe. 

Buck wasn’t just going away. 
He was being deployed. 
Immediately. 
For up to two years. 

And he hadn’t told anyone. 
He’d written letters instead. 

Eddie’s hands shook as he read the paragraph about the lawsuit. Buck explaining — clearly, painfully — that he had never sued the 118. Never sued the department. Only Bobby. And that he’d told his lawyer to withdraw it. 

Eddie swallowed hard, shame twisting in his gut. 
Buck had been alone with that too. 

Then— 
Then the letter shifted. 

And Eddie felt the ground drop out from under him. 

Buck wrote about Abby. 
About thinking he’d go back to the man he was before her. 
About how he didn’t. 
Because of Eddie. 
Because of Christopher. 
Because of them. 

Eddie inhaled sharply. 

Then he reached the words that would stay with him for the rest of his life. 

I love you. 

He froze. 

The world froze. 

He reread the sentence once. 
Twice. 
Again. 
As if the meaning would change if he blinked. 

But it didn’t. 

Buck loved him. 

Buck had loved him quietly, painfully, for God knows how long — while Eddie had been burying his own feelings under grief and guilt and routine. While Eddie had been blind. 

He kept reading, throat tight. 

Buck didn’t expect anything back. 
Didn’t want anything from him. 
Just wanted Eddie to know before he deployed. 
Before the worst could happen. 

The last lines hit him like a fist. 

Goodbye for now. 
Buck 

Eddie shut his eyes, chest burning with something sharp, something overwhelming, something he didn’t have a name for yet. 

Buck thought Eddie wouldn’t want him. 
Buck thought Eddie didn’t care. 
Buck thought Eddie might never forgive him. 

Buck thought this was the end. 

Eddie stood so abruptly the letter shook in his hand. 

“Dad?” Christopher asked, eyes red and wide. 

“We’re going to Buck,” Eddie said, voice steady with purpose he hadn’t felt in weeks. “Now.” 

Christopher blinked. “We are?” 

“Yes.” Eddie grabbed his keys. “He’s not leaving without talking to us.” 

“But— but what if he already left?” Christopher whispered. 

Eddie knelt in front of him, cupping the back of his son’s head. 

“He hasn’t,” he said firmly. “He hasn’t. And we’re not letting him.” 

Christopher nodded, more determined now. 

Eddie lifted him carefully into the car, buckled him in, and climbed into the driver’s seat. 

As he reversed out of the driveway, one thought crystallised in Eddie’s chest — 

Buck had said goodbye in a letter. 
But Eddie had no intention of letting it end like that. 

They drove to Buck’s loft. 

Eddie didn’t know what he’d say yet. 

But he knew one thing with absolute certainty: 

He wasn’t losing Buck. 
Not without a fight. 

Buck was kneeling beside an open duffel bag when he heard it — 
the soft, uneven thunk… thunk… thunk of crutches approaching along the landing outside. 

His breath stopped. 

He would know that sound anywhere. 

Christopher. 

Not Eddie’s heavy stride — but the familiar, slightly uneven cadence of the boy Buck loved more fiercely than he ever let himself admit. 

Buck froze, panic tightening under his ribs. 

No. 
Not now. 
Not like this. 

A gentle knock followed, hesitant but urgent. 

Buck swallowed hard and opened the door. 

Christopher stood there first, gripping his crutches, eyes already bright with unshed tears. 
Eddie stood just behind him — jaw tight, eyes wounded, shoulders braced with determination. 

Buck’s chest cracked open at the sight of them. 

“Eddie,” he breathed. Then, softer, breaking — “Chris. What’re you doing here?” 

Christopher didn’t answer. 

He moved forward immediately, dropping one crutch and wrapping his free arm around Buck’s waist. Buck caught him instinctively, holding him close as Christopher pressed his face into Buck’s shirt. 

“You’re leaving,” Christopher whispered. 

Buck shut his eyes. 

Eddie stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind them. 

“Sit,” Eddie said, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. 

Buck obeyed, settling on the sofa with Christopher clinging tightly against his chest. 

Eddie remained standing for a moment, studying Buck with an expression that made him feel bare — hurt, fear, and something protective all tangled together. 

Then Eddie reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded cloth. 

He placed it gently on Buck’s knee. 

Buck unwrapped it with trembling fingers. 

A photograph. 

The three of them on the Diaz sofa years ago — Buck in the middle, Christopher leaning into him, Eddie smiling softly at them both. 

Buck blinked hard. 

“I thought you should have that,” Eddie murmured. 

Buck swallowed. “Eddie…” 

But Eddie wasn’t finished. 

He pulled something else from his pocket — a silver chain. 

Buck recognised it instantly. 

St Christopher. 
Shannon’s gift. 
Eddie’s constant while he was overseas. 

Threaded onto the chain was one of Eddie’s dog tags. 

Buck shook his head faintly. “Eddie, I can’t—” 

“You can,” Eddie said firmly. “And you will.” 

Buck’s voice trembled. “That’s yours.” 

Eddie stepped closer. 
“I’m giving it to you because I want something of me with you when you go. Because you’re not doing this alone. And because you’re coming back.” 

He lifted the chain and slipped it over Buck’s head, letting the pendant and the single dog tag settle against his chest. 

Buck’s fingers curled around it as if it anchored him. 

“I didn’t want you to know like this,” Buck whispered. “I didn’t want to make things harder.” 

Christopher shifted in his lap. “Then why didn’t you tell us?” 

Buck’s breath hitched. 

Eddie exhaled slowly. 
“Let’s talk about the lawsuit.” 

Buck froze. 

“I thought it was gone,” Buck said quietly. “I told my lawyer to withdraw it. I believed him. HR told me yesterday it never was. The settlement processed automatically when I didn’t respond by the deadline they set.” 

Eddie stared, shock and anger flaring — not at Buck, but for him. 

“So you weren’t suing the 118,” Eddie said slowly. 

Buck shook his head. “Never. Only Bobby. And I didn’t even want it to go that far.” 

Eddie rubbed a hand over his face. “Jesus.” 

“You thought I betrayed you,” Buck whispered. 

Eddie looked stricken. 
“I should’ve known better.” 

“You weren’t allowed to talk to me,” Buck said gently. 

That landed hard. 

Eddie nodded once. Then his gaze sharpened. 

“What branch?” 

Buck hesitated. 

“Buck,” Eddie said quietly, “you’re being deployed. You have dog tags. What branch?” 

Buck swallowed. 
“Navy SEALs.” 

Christopher gasped softly knowing what that is because his dad taught him. 
Eddie stared, stunned. 

Buck looked down at his hands. “I didn’t want that life touching this one.” 

Eddie shook his head slowly. 
“You should’ve told me.” 

“I didn’t want you looking at me like I was already gone.” 

Christopher tightened his grip. 
“You shouldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” he whispered. 

Buck kissed his hair. “I know, buddy.” 

Eddie inhaled, then held out his hand. 

“Give me one of yours.” 

Buck blinked. “What?” 

“Your dog tags,” Eddie said. “If I gave you one of mine, I want one of yours.” 

Buck reached into his bag, hands shaking, and unclipped one of his SEAL dog tags, leaving the other behind. 

He placed it in Eddie’s palm. 

“So you’ve got something of me,” Buck said quietly. “Something that says I’m still yours to worry about.” 

Eddie closed his fingers around the tag, pressing it briefly to his chest before slipping it into his pocket. 

“You’re not allowed to disappear,” Eddie said. “You don’t get to become a name on metal.” 

Buck swallowed hard. “I don’t plan on it.” 

Eddie met his eyes, fierce and steady. 

“You come home.” 

Buck nodded, tears finally slipping free. 

“I will.” 

And for the first time in days, something fragile but real broke through the fear in Buck’s chest. 

Hope. 

Morning came softly, as if the day itself was trying not to intrude. 

Buck woke before his alarm, staring at the ceiling of the loft while the city hummed faintly below. For a moment, he forgot where he was — forgot the open duffel bags, the folded deployment orders, the weight of a future that no longer belonged to him. 

Then he breathed in. 

And remembered everything. 

He dressed quietly, movements careful, precise. There was comfort in the routine — boots on, laces tied, sleeves rolled — muscle memory doing what his mind couldn’t yet manage. 

By the time Eddie arrived with Christopher, Buck had coffee on and toast burning slightly in the toaster. 

“Sorry,” Buck muttered, scraping the toast into the bin. “I got distracted.” 

Eddie shook his head. “It’s fine.” 

Christopher watched him from the doorway, crutches tucked under his arms, eyes tired but sharp. Buck smiled at him anyway — a small, deliberate thing. 

“Morning, buddy.” 

“Morning,” Christopher replied softly. 

They didn’t talk much as they left the loft. 

The drive passed in near silence. Christopher sat in the back, quiet but alert, crutches braced carefully beside him. Eddie drove. Buck sat in the passenger seat, hands folded loosely in his lap, staring out of the window as if committing the road to memory. 

When they pulled into the school car park, Buck didn’t stay behind. 

He got out of the car. 

Eddie glanced at him, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, but didn’t comment. Together, they helped Christopher out and walked him inside — Buck instinctively matching Christopher’s pace, close enough to steady him if needed. 

The school office smelled faintly of disinfectant and pencil shavings. 

The receptionist looked up with a polite smile. “Good morning.” 

“Morning,” Eddie said. His voice was steady. “I need to sign my son out after today. He won’t be in again until Tuesday.” 

The receptionist nodded, fingers moving across the keyboard. “May I ask the reason?” 

“Yes,” Eddie said without hesitation. “His stepfather is preparing to deploy overseas.” 

The word landed in Buck’s chest like a dropped weight. 

Stepfather. 

Not careful. 
Not softened. 
Not avoided. 

Just stated. 
A fact. 
A truth. 

Buck stared at the counter, breath catching before he could stop it. His vision blurred slightly, and he focused on keeping his face neutral, on not letting the moment undo him in front of strangers. 

The receptionist’s expression softened immediately. “Of course. We’ll mark that as excused. You’ll just need to sign here.” 

Eddie took the clipboard and signed. 

Christopher glanced between them, eyes searching. 

Buck met his gaze and managed a smile — small, a little unsteady — and gave a brief nod. 

Eddie handed the clipboard back. “Thank you.” 

“Best of luck,” the receptionist said quietly. “All of you.” 

They walked back out into the morning light. 

Buck didn’t speak at first. He didn’t trust his voice. 

It was Eddie who broke the silence as they reached the car. 

“I meant it,” he said quietly. “What I said in there.” 

Buck swallowed hard. “I know.” 

The word stepfather stayed with him all the way back to the loft — not heavy, not frightening. 

Grounding. 

A place. 
A reason. 

The loft felt quieter when they returned. Emptier. 

Buck picked up where he’d left off, folding clothes with almost painful precision, lining up boots that didn’t need lining up. Eddie hovered for a moment, then stepped in without asking — sorting, packing, making himself useful. 

They worked side by side. 

At some point, Buck stopped moving. 

He stood in the middle of the room, staring at nothing, hands slack at his sides. 

Eddie noticed immediately. 

“Buck,” he said gently. 

Buck blinked. “Sorry. I— I was just—” 

“You don’t need to apologise,” Eddie said. “Sit.” 

Buck sank onto the edge of the sofa, shoulders slumping as if the weight finally caught up with him. 

Eddie carried on packing. 

After a few minutes, Eddie spoke again, carefully casual. 

“What are you doing with the loft?” 

Buck frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” Eddie said, glancing around, “you own this place. You’re not just locking the door for two years.” 

The words landed harder than Eddie intended. 

Buck opened his mouth. Closed it again. 

“Oh.” 

Eddie paused. “You haven’t sorted it.” 

Buck let out a short, humourless breath. “I didn’t even think about it.” 

Eddie nodded once. “Okay.” 

That single word carried a decision in it. 

“I’ll help,” Eddie continued. “But you’ll need an estate agent. Someone to manage it while you’re gone.” 

Buck nodded slowly. “Yeah. I guess I do.” 

He rubbed his hands together, suddenly restless. “I’ll call one. Today.” 

“Good,” Eddie said. 

They worked in silence again after that — not uncomfortable, just heavy with everything unsaid. 

Buck folded the last jumper and set it aside. 

“Thanks,” he said quietly. 

Eddie didn’t look up. “You don’t have to thank me.” 

Buck watched him for a moment — the way Eddie moved through the space like he belonged there, like this was already a shared burden. 

Something tight in Buck’s chest loosened, just a fraction. 

Outside, the day carried on. 

Inside, they packed a life away — together. 

The knock came just after midday. 

Buck had been standing at the kitchen counter, staring at his phone without really seeing it, when Eddie glanced toward the door. 

“That’ll be them,” Eddie said. 

Buck nodded, even though his stomach tightened. 

He opened the door to a woman in her forties, professionally dressed, tablet tucked under one arm and a practised, sympathetic smile already in place. 

“Evan Buckley?” she asked. 

“That’s me.” 

“I’m Rachel Klein, from Klein & Moreno Property Management. You rang earlier about a short-notice rental?” 

Buck stepped aside to let her in. “Yeah. Thanks for coming so quickly.” 

“Of course,” she said, glancing around the loft with an appraising but respectful eye. “You mentioned on the phone you own the property outright?” 

“I do,” Buck confirmed. “No mortgage.” 

“Good,” she said. “That gives us flexibility.” 

They moved through the space together — the loft suddenly feeling like something being inspected rather than lived in. Eddie hung back at first, hands in his pockets, watching Buck carefully. 

Rachel tapped a few notes into her tablet. “You said you’re looking to rent it out long-term?” 

“At least two years,” Buck replied. Saying it out loud made his chest tighten. “Possibly longer.” 

“And the reason for the short notice?” she asked gently, not prying — just professional. 

Buck hesitated for half a second. 

“I’m deploying overseas,” he said. “Military.” 

Rachel’s expression shifted instantly — softer, more careful. “I see. Thank you for telling me.” 

She nodded once. “We can absolutely manage the property while you’re away. Marketing, tenants, maintenance — all handled through us.” 

Buck exhaled slowly. “That’s… that’s what I need.” 

Rachel glanced between Buck and Eddie. “Will someone be acting as your local point of contact?” 

“Yes,” Buck said immediately, turning toward Eddie. “Him.” 

Eddie looked up, surprised. 

“Eddie Díaz,” Buck added. “I want him listed as my proxy. Full authority to make decisions if I can’t be reached.” 

Rachel smiled faintly. “That’s very sensible.” 

She turned the tablet toward Eddie. “I’ll need your details as well, Mr Díaz.” 

Eddie stepped forward without hesitation. “Of course.” 

As Rachel took their information, Buck drifted toward the window, watching the city below. The traffic. The people going about ordinary days. 

Two years. 

Maybe more. 

Rachel finished typing and looked up. “We can have the property listed within forty-eight hours. You’ll receive documents to sign electronically. Rent will be deposited directly into your account unless you specify otherwise.” 

Buck nodded numbly. “That’s fine.” 

“One more thing,” Rachel added gently. “Given the circumstances, I’d recommend a minimum lease of twelve months, renewable. It gives you stability.” 

Buck swallowed. “Do it.” 

Rachel packed up her tablet. “Then we’re set.” 

At the door, she paused. “For what it’s worth — good luck. And come home safe.” 

“Thank you,” Buck said quietly. 

When the door closed behind her, the loft felt… different. 

Not empty. 
But no longer entirely his. 

Eddie broke the silence first. 

“You okay?” 

Buck stared at the door for a long moment before answering. 

“I just rented out my life,” he said softly. 

Eddie stepped closer. “No. You made sure it’s still here when you come back.” 

Buck nodded — once — accepting the truth of it even if he didn’t fully feel it yet. 

The storage unit smelled of dust and metal and old cardboard even if he opened it recently. 

Buck stood inside it with the door half-raised, the late afternoon light cutting a pale stripe across the concrete floor. He moved slowly, methodically, lifting boxes from the back of the truck and stacking them against the wall. 

He didn’t rush. 

There was no point. 

Every box felt like another piece of proof that this was really happening. 

A framed photo from the loft. 
A box of books he didn’t trust himself to throw away. 
A duffel bag with his old turnout gear — clean, folded, useless now. 

He set each one down carefully, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile inside them. 

Or inside himself. 

The firehouse was loud. 

The 118 were on shift — Chimney leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand, Hen halfway through inventory. The table was cluttered with paperwork and half-eaten snacks. 

Normal. 
Busy. 
Alive. 

Eddie walked straight in and stopped at the table. 

He planted both hands flat on the surface. 

The sound cracked through the room. 

Conversations died mid-sentence. 

Chim looked up first. 
Hen followed. 
Bobby froze where he stood. 

“I know why you kept Buck out,” Eddie said. 

His voice was calm, but tight — pulled so thin it might snap. 

Bobby’s eyes flickered. “Eddie—” 

“You thought he wasn’t ready,” Eddie continued, cutting him off. “You thought you were protecting him.” 

Chim frowned. “What’s going on?” 

Eddie didn’t look away from Bobby. 

“And you know what?” he said. “That’s fine.” 

The room stilled. 

Hen straightened. 
Chim’s mug lowered slowly. 

“Because while you were deciding Buck wasn’t ready to come back to the firehouse,” Eddie said, voice rising now, carrying across the bay, “the United States Navy decided he was.” 

Silence slammed into the space. 

“They recalled him,” Eddie went on. “Active duty. Navy SEALs. Two-year deployment.” 

Chim swore under his breath. 
Hen’s hand tightened around the clipboard she was holding. 

“And before any of you say a word,” Eddie added, finally turning to look at them, “you deserve to know something else.” 

He took a breath. 

“The lawsuit?” Eddie said. “It was never against the 118. Never against the department. It was only against Bobby.” 

Hen’s breath caught audibly. 
Chim stared at Bobby in disbelief. 

“Buck wasn’t trying to burn this place down,” Eddie continued, voice sharp with hurt. “He was trying to come back. He was cleared. He was asking to work. And he was blocked.” 

Bobby’s jaw tightened. 

“And now?” Eddie said quietly. “Now it doesn’t matter.” 

He turned back to Bobby, eyes blazing. 

“Because even if Buck comes home,” Eddie said, every word deliberate, “even if he survives deployment — he can never work for the LAFD again.” 

The words landed like a physical blow. 

Hen whispered, “What?” 

“The settlement triggered when he resigned,” Eddie said. “Automatic. Legal. Final. His file’s closed.” 

Chim shook his head slowly. “Jesus.” 

Eddie gestured around the room — the bay, the table, the people listening. 

“You didn’t want him rushing back before he was ready?” Eddie said, incredulous. “Congratulations. Because now he’s rushing into a warzone — and there’s no job here waiting for him if he makes it back.” 

Bobby finally spoke — the only thing he would say. 

“I didn’t want Buck rushing back before he was ready.” 

The room went dead silent. 

Eddie laughed — sharp, humourless, furious. 

“That’s your line?” he demanded. “That’s what you’re standing on?” 

He leaned forward, palms pressing harder into the table. 

“He begged to come back,” Eddie said, voice shaking now. “He asked to come home. And you decided you knew better.” 

Hen took a step forward. “Cap—” 

“No,” Eddie snapped, not looking away from Bobby. “You don’t get to hide behind good intentions anymore.” 

Eddie straightened, voice dropping — colder now. 

“You didn’t protect Buck,” he said. “You took away his future. And now you don’t even get to pretend it helped.” 

Bobby said nothing. 

Eddie turned and walked out. 

No one stopped him. 

Buck closed the last box at the storage unit. 

It was lighter than the others. 

Inside lay a single folded T-shirt — old, soft, worn thin. A firehouse shirt. The 118 logo faded but still intact. 

Buck stared at it for a long moment. 

Then he folded it once more, carefully, and placed it at the very back of the unit. 

Not thrown away. 
Not reachable. 

Just… kept. 

He lowered the metal door. 

The clang echoed too loudly in the empty corridor. 

Back at the firehouse, the silence lingered long after Eddie was gone. 

No one moved. 

The bay felt wrong without noise — too wide, too hollow — like something vital had been pulled out and no one knew how to compensate. 

Chim was the first to speak. 

“He was only suing Bobby?” he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again to believe it. 

Hen nodded once. Her jaw was tight, eyes bright with anger and grief. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Just Bobby. Not us. Not the department.” 

Chim let out a slow breath. “Jesus.” 

He dragged a hand over his face and paced a few steps before stopping again. 

“We really thought he was trying to torch the whole place,” he said. “I kept telling myself he’d rung the bell.” 

Hen frowned. “What bell?” 

“SEAL training,” Chim replied. “I figured… he quit. That he’d hit his limit and walked away.” 

Hen scoffed softly — not amused, just hollow. 
“Buck doesn’t quit.” 

“I know,” Chim said. “But it was easier than thinking he was hurting that badly and we didn’t see it. Easier than thinking we left him alone.” 

Hen’s shoulders sagged. “We did leave him alone.” 

Chim swallowed, then pulled his phone from his pocket. 

“I’m calling Maddie.” 

Hen nodded immediately. “She should hear it from us.” 

Chim stepped away, thumb hovering for half a second before he hit call. 

“Maddie,” he said when she answered. “Hey. Are you somewhere you can talk?” 

He listened, shoulders tightening. 

“It’s Buck,” Chim said quietly. “He’s deploying. Active duty. Navy SEALs. He got recalled.” 

A pause. 

“No, I don’t think he wanted anyone to know yet,” Chim continued. “Eddie found out this morning.” 

Hen watched his face as Chim listened, jaw tightening. 

“There’s something else,” Chim said after a moment. “That lawsuit everyone thought was against the department? It wasn’t. It was only against Bobby. Buck wasn’t trying to hurt us. He was trying to come back.” 

Another pause. 

“Yeah,” Chim said softly. “I know. I know.” 

He rubbed at the back of his neck. 

“And Maddie… even if he makes it home, he can’t come back to the LAFD. The settlement closed the door completely.” 

Silence stretched on the line. 

“I know,” Chim repeated. “I don’t know how we missed it either.” 

When he hung up, Chim stood there for a moment, staring at his phone like it had personally betrayed him. 

Hen crossed her arms tightly. “She okay?” 

“She’s angry,” Chim said. “And scared. And trying to work out how none of us knew.” 

Hen nodded slowly. “Fair.” 

They stood in the quiet bay again, the truth settling heavy and undeniable. 

“Buck thought we hated him,” Chim said finally. 

Hen closed her eyes. “And we let him think that.” 

And across the city, Buck leaned against his truck, eyes closed, unaware that the truth — all of it — had finally been spoken aloud in the place he still thought of as home. 

Eddie found Buck sitting on the tailgate of his truck outside the storage unit. 

The sun was low now, throwing long shadows across the concrete. Buck had one boot on the ground, the other hooked on the bumper, elbows resting on his knees. He looked tired in a way Eddie recognised — not physical exhaustion, but the kind that came from holding yourself together for too long. 

The storage unit door was closed. 

That, somehow, hurt more than seeing it open would have. 

Buck looked up when Eddie approached. He didn’t smile. 

“You’re done,” Buck said quietly. 

Eddie nodded. “Yeah.” 

They stood there for a moment, neither of them moving closer, as if both were afraid that once the distance closed, something might finally give way. 

Buck gestured vaguely toward the city. 
“So,” he said. “What did he say?” 

Eddie didn’t answer straight away. 

He leaned back against the truck, folded his arms, stared out across the rows of identical metal doors. 

Finally, he said it. 

“He said he didn’t want you rushing back before you were ready.” 

Buck let out a short breath. Not quite a laugh. 

“Of course he did.” 

Eddie watched his face carefully. “That’s all he said.” 

Buck nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the ground. 
“Yeah. That tracks.” 

Silence settled between them. 

“You know,” Buck said after a moment, voice flat, “I kept thinking if I just waited long enough, he’d change his mind.” 

Eddie swallowed. “Buck—” 

“I was cleared,” Buck continued quietly. “Medically. Psych. Everything. I did everything right. And it still wasn’t enough.” 

Eddie shook his head. “It shouldn’t have been his call.” 

Buck looked up then, something raw flickering in his eyes. 

“But it was.” 

Eddie didn’t argue. 

Buck looked back down at his hands — steady now, too steady. 

“I guess it doesn’t matter anymore,” Buck said softly. “Even if he had let me come back… I still couldn’t stay.” 

Eddie’s chest tightened. “Because of the settlement.” 

Buck nodded once. “Yeah.” 

The words sat between them, heavy and final. 

“I didn’t want it to end like this,” Buck said eventually. “I didn’t want to leave thinking I failed. Or that I was pushed out.” 

“You didn’t fail,” Eddie said immediately. 

Buck gave a small, tired smile. “Feels like I did.” 

Eddie stepped closer then — not crowding him, just close enough to be solid. 

“Listen to me,” Eddie said quietly. “You didn’t lose this job because you weren’t ready. You lost it because someone else was scared.” 

Buck’s eyes glassed over. “That doesn’t make it hurt less.” 

“I know.” 

Eddie hesitated, then added, “I told them the truth.” 

Buck blinked. “You did?” 

“They know the lawsuit was only against Bobby,” Eddie said. “They know you weren’t trying to burn the department down. They know you can’t come back.” 

Buck closed his eyes. 

“Good,” he murmured. “I didn’t want them thinking—” 

“I know.” 

Buck’s phone vibrated against the metal of the tailgate. 

The sound was sharp in the quiet. 

Buck frowned slightly and picked it up. 

“Maddie.” 

Eddie stilled, instinctively stepping back to give him space. 

Buck hesitated — then answered. 

“Hey,” he said softly. 

There was a pause. Buck’s shoulders tensed. 

“…Yeah,” he said. “I’m okay.” 

Another pause. Longer this time. 

“No,” Buck said quietly. “I wasn’t planning on telling anyone yet.” 

Eddie watched Buck’s expression shift — confusion giving way to understanding, then something heavier. 

“…Yeah,” Buck continued. “I got recalled. Active duty. Navy SEALs.” 

He swallowed. 

“For two years. Maybe longer.” 

Silence on the line. 

“I know,” Buck said softly. “I know.” 

He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“And Maddie… the lawsuit wasn’t what you thought. It wasn’t against the department. It was only Bobby. I didn’t want any of this.” 

His voice wavered, just slightly. 

“…No,” he said. “I can’t come back. Even if I make it home.” 

Another pause. 

“I’m sorry,” Buck murmured. “I should’ve told you myself.” 

He listened, jaw tightening, eyes burning. 

“I love you too,” he said quietly. “I promise I’ll call when I can.” 

Buck ended the call and stared at the phone for a long moment before slipping it back into his pocket. 

Eddie didn’t say anything. 

Buck drew a slow breath. 

“So,” he said hoarsely. “That’s officially everyone I didn’t want to find out like this.” 

Eddie stepped forward again and rested a hand on Buck’s shoulder. 

“You don’t have to carry this by yourself,” he said. 

Buck nodded faintly. “I know.” 

He leaned into the touch — just a fraction — letting it hold him upright. 

The sun dipped lower, the light thinning. 

Time kept moving. 

Whether Buck was ready or not. 

Abuela’s house smelled like comfort the moment they stepped inside. 

Pozole simmered on the stove, rich and earthy, the steam curling into the air alongside the warmth of garlic, chilli, and hominy. On the counter, trays of tamales sat covered with tea towels, waiting. The house was already full — voices overlapping, children laughing somewhere down the hall, the low murmur of Spanish drifting in and out of rooms. 

Buck came in with Eddie and Christopher, the door closing behind them on the evening air. 

Everything was already packed and put in the storage unit. 
Everything that could be done, had been. 

Christopher moved carefully through the space on his crutches, clearly more at ease here than anywhere else. He was simply, present and watchful, absorbing the final night before Buck left. 

Abuela turned from the stove the moment she saw Buck. 

“Evan,” she said, already crossing the room. 

She didn’t ask questions. 
She didn’t slow down. 

She pulled him into a hug that was firm and encompassing, her hand pressed between his shoulder blades like she was anchoring him in place. 

“You help,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Then you eat. Then we see.” 

Buck smiled, throat tight. “Yes, ma’am.” 

He slipped out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves without being asked. 

“What do you need?” he offered. 

Abuela eyed him for a moment, then nodded toward the counter. “Tamales. And don’t be gentle. They don’t like that.” 

Buck huffed a quiet laugh and got to work, hands moving easily, gratefully, like being useful was the only thing keeping him upright. 

Eddie hovered uselessly near the doorway to the kitchen. 

“Do you want me to—” 

“No,” Abuela said without looking at him. 

Buck bit his lip, shoulders shaking slightly with a laugh he hadn’t quite expected. 

Christopher took his place at the table, crutches leaned carefully against the wall. He watched Buck with an intensity that said he was memorising this — the way Buck stood at the counter, the way he listened to Abuela’s instructions like they mattered. 

The house filled steadily. 

Tía Pepa arrived with her grandchildren in tow, the younger ones immediately racing down the hall. One of them — small, dark-haired, curious — stopped short when he saw Buck. 

“Tio Buck,” he said brightly, then tilted his head. “Are you going away like Tio Eddie did?” 

The room stilled — just for a moment. 

Buck crouched down, bringing himself level with the child. 

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Like that, but I will promise to try to come home the same way your Tio Eddie did.” 

The boy nodded, accepting this as sufficient explanation. “Okay.” 

And ran off again. 

No drama. 
No fear. 

Just truth. 

Dinner was loud in the way only family dinners were. 

Bowls passed hand to hand. 
Laughter rising and falling. 
Spanish and English tangled together without effort. 

Buck sat beside Christopher, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Christopher wasn’t his usual bubbly self but no-one expected him to. His Bucky was going away for two years minimum. 

At one point, Christopher leaned in and murmured, “You make good tamales.” 

Buck smiled. “High praise.” 

When the plates were nearly empty and the noise had settled into something quieter, Abuela stood. 

Everyone followed her lead automatically. 

She bowed her head, hands folded, voice steady and sure. 

“Dios,” she began softly, “te pedimos que cuides a Evancito.” (God, we ask you to take care of Evancito.) 

Buck swallowed hard. 

“Protégelo,” Abuela continued. “Acompáñalo donde vaya. Tráelo de vuelta sano, a su familia, a su casa.” (Protect him, go with him wherever he goes. Bring him back safe and sound, to his family, to his home.) 

She lifted her head. 

“Amen.” 

“Amen,” the table echoed back. 

Afterwards, Abuela pressed containers of leftovers into Buck’s hands, ignoring his protests. 

“You eat,” she told him again. “You don’t forget that part.” 

When it was time to leave, she took his face gently between her hands. 

She kissed his left cheek. 
Then his right. 

Then she pressed her thumb to his forehead and traced the sign of the cross there, deliberate and reverent. 

“Vuelve,” she said quietly. (Come back.) 

Buck nodded, eyes burning. “I will.” 

Outside, the night was cool and calm. 

Christopher walked carefully beside Eddie, Buck just behind them, close enough to steady him if needed. 

Before they reached the car, Christopher stopped and turned. 

“You’re still my stepdad, my bucky” he said plainly. Not questioning. Stating. 

Buck crouched immediately, meeting his eyes. 

“Always,” Buck said. “That doesn’t change.” 

Christopher nodded, satisfied. 

The drive home was quiet. 

Not empty. 

Just full — of food, of prayer, of the kind of love that didn’t ask permission or make conditions. 

And of the knowledge that there was very little time left. 

They didn’t talk about it. 

Not when Eddie paused in the hallway. 
Not when Buck hesitated by the spare room door. 
Not when the house settled into its quiet, Christopher asleep down the hall, the clock in the kitchen ticking far too loudly. 

It just… happened. 

Eddie lay down on one side of the bed. Buck on the other. Space between them at first — cautious, respectful, like they were both afraid of naming what they needed. 

The light was off, the room dim with streetlamp glow filtering through the curtains. 

After a while, Buck shifted. 

Eddie felt it more than heard it — the careful movement, the tension in it — and turned slightly onto his side, facing him. 

“You okay?” Eddie asked quietly. 

Buck let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Define okay.” 

Eddie didn’t answer that. He didn’t need to. 

He reached out, tentative at first, and rested his hand against Buck’s forearm. Buck didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned fully onto his side, closer now, the space between them narrowing until it disappeared. 

They didn’t kiss. 
They didn’t rush. 

Buck pressed his forehead against Eddie’s shoulder, eyes closed, breathing shallow like if he let himself breathe properly, something would break. 

Eddie shifted just enough to make room and pulled Buck in — not tight, not possessive — just enough to say you’re not alone in this. 

They lay like that for a long time. 

Listening to each other breathe. 
Feeling the rise and fall of chests. 
Memorising the weight and warmth and the quiet fact of being held. 

At some point, Buck whispered, barely audible, “I’m scared.” 

Eddie’s arm tightened fractionally. “I know.” 

“I don’t want to go,” Buck said. 

“I know,” Eddie repeated. 

They didn’t try to fix it. They didn’t make promises they couldn’t guarantee. 

They just stayed. 

Eventually, sleep found them — light and fragile — Buck tucked close, Eddie’s hand steady at his back like an anchor. 

The house woke before the sun did. 

Not with alarms, not with voices — just with awareness, like even the walls knew what day it was and didn’t want to hurry it along. 

Buck woke first. 

For one disorienting, merciful second, he forgot everything. 

Then he felt Eddie’s arm around him. 

And remembered. 

He stayed still, breathing carefully, not wanting to be the one to break it. 

Eddie woke anyway. 

They didn’t say good morning. 

They didn’t need to. 

Buck sat up eventually, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, dog tags cool against his chest. Eddie leaned back against the headboard, watching him with an expression Buck didn’t trust himself to name. 

“Didn’t really sleep,” Buck murmured. 

“Me neither.” 

That made Buck glance back. Their eyes met, and something settled — an understanding neither of them had to say out loud. 

Christopher was already awake. 

He came down the hall carefully, crutches steady, hair sticking up at the back, pyjamas rumpled. He stopped when he saw Buck and Eddie together, took it in without comment, then moved closer. 

“Morning,” Buck said softly. 

“Morning,” Christopher replied. 

They went into the kitchen. Eddie made coffee no one really wanted. Buck made toast no one really ate. 

The ordinary motions hurt more than anything else. 

Christopher climbed onto his chair and watched Buck closely, frowning slightly like he was working through something important. 

“You leaving after breakfast?” he asked. 

Buck nodded. “Yeah.” 

Christopher nodded too, already prepared for the answer. 

When Buck stood to grab his jacket, Christopher slid down from his chair and reached into the pocket of his hoodie. 

“I almost forgot,” he said. 

He held out a small keychain — worn smooth from handling, simple and sturdy. 

Buck blinked. “Chris…” 

“So you don’t forget,” Christopher said, serious. “And so you come back.” 

Buck swallowed hard and knelt immediately, careful of Christopher’s balance. 

“I won’t forget,” Buck said, voice thick. “I promise.” 

Christopher placed the keychain into Buck’s hand himself, making sure Buck closed his fingers around it. 

“Put it on your bag,” Christopher instructed. 

Buck nodded. “Okay.” 

He clipped it carefully onto the zip of his kit bag, the soft click sounding louder than it should have. 

Christopher watched until it was secure. Only then did he nod, satisfied. 

Eddie turned away for a moment, jaw tight. 

When it was time to leave, Buck shrugged into his jacket and adjusted the strap of his bag. The weight of it felt different now. 

Buck knelt in front of Christopher again. 

“You okay?” he asked gently. 

Christopher nodded. “You promised.” 

“I did,” Buck said. “And I meant it.” 

Christopher reached out and gripped Buck’s sleeve, firm and certain. 

“You have to come back,” he said. 

Buck swallowed hard. “I will.” 

He pressed a kiss to Christopher’s hair, lingering just a second longer than necessary. 

Eddie stepped forward then. 

They didn’t hug. 

They didn’t need to. 

Eddie rested his forehead briefly against Buck’s. 

“Come home,” Eddie said quietly. 

Buck nodded. “I’m trying.” 

“That’s not what I said.” 

Buck exhaled shakily. “I’ll come home.” 

Eddie pulled back first — because one of them had to. 

The drive to the airport passed in silence. 

Christopher watched the city slide by, head against the window. Eddie kept both hands tight on the wheel. Buck stared straight ahead, fingers brushing the keychain once, just to make sure it was still there. 

No one said goodbye yet. 

They weren’t there. 

Not until the terminal came into view.