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Eddie blames the bowl.
If Bobby had used literally any other container, maybe Eddie wouldn’t be here, staring down at a fold of paper like it’s a live grenade about to go off and take his dignity with it.
But no, it had to be the stupid festive ceramic bowl with snowmen on the sides and “JOY” in big red letters across the bottom. Bobby had made a whole thing of it—Secret Santa, thirty- to seventy-five-dollar price limit, “something thoughtful, no pressure,” said with the kind of easy, dad-like confidence that assumes everyone can just…be normal about this.
Eddie is not being normal about this.
“Come on, Diaz,” Chimney says from his other side, elbowing him gently. “Pick a name before Buck starts singing ‘Jingle Bells’ again.”
Across the table, Buck perks up. “Hey, my rendition was festive.”
“It was a hate crime,” Hen mutters around her coffee, and Karen hides a smile behind her mug.
Bobby pushes the bowl closer to Eddie. “Go on,” he says, warm and patient. “We haven’t got all day.”
Eddie takes a breath, reaches into the bowl, and tells himself that it doesn’t matter who he gets. It’ll be fine. It’ll be someone easy, like Chim—he can get a novelty mug and a weird hat, done. Or Hen, maybe a fancy pen, she likes those. Or Bobby, easy: something for the kitchen.
His fingers close around a little folded slip.
He pulls it out, unfolds it, and sees the name.
EVAN BUCKLEY.
The universe laughs in his face.
“Everything okay?” Buck asks, eyebrows up, eyes bright, completely oblivious.
“Yep,” Eddie says, voice coming out an octave too high. He clears his throat. “Fine.”
He folds the paper back up like it’s evidence, tucks it into his pocket before anyone can see, and thinks:
Oh.
Oh no.
Because there are rules to this kind of thing.
Rule one: It’s Secret Santa. It’s supposed to be fun.
Rule two: It’s supposed to be casual—thoughtful, sure, but not…a whole thing.
Rule three: Under absolutely no circumstances should it feel like you’ve been handed emotional custody of your best friend’s heart.
Eddie sits back, heartbeat thrumming, and realizes that’s exactly what it feels like.
By the time they’re getting into their trucks to go home after shift, the slip of paper in his pocket feels like it weighs fifty pounds.
Buck hops into the driver’s seat of the engine, grin soft and happy, snowflake lights from the station roof reflecting in his eyes. “This is gonna be fun,” he says. “Can’t wait to see what I get.”
Yeah, well, Eddie can.
“Remember, thirty to seventy-five,” Hen calls, unlocking her car. “We don’t need anyone bankrupting themselves.”
“Looking at you, Maddie,” Chim adds, pointing.
She flips him off cheerfully. “Sorry I care about giving good gifts, some of us have standards.”
They all laugh. Eddie tries to. It comes out weird.
On the drive home, Christopher talks more to his phone than to Eddie, thumbs flying as he texts, but he still keeps up a running commentary about school and Christmas and how if whoever gets him doesn’t understand that he likes actual sci-fi and not “baby space stuff,” he’s returning their gift out of principle.
“So…you get someone good?” Chris asks eventually, glancing up from his screen, one earbud dangling.
“Yeah,” Eddie says, and then, because his kid has had a built-in bullshit detector since he was like five, adds, “Yeah, I did.”
“Who?”
“It’s supposed to be a secret,” Eddie says, eyes flicking to the rearview. “That’s the whole point, remember?”
Chris gives him a long, unimpressed look. “Is it Buck?”
Eddie almost swerves. “What? No. Why would—why would you say that?”
“You’re doing that face,” Chris says.
“What face?”
“The ‘I’m stressed about Buck and pretending I’m not’ face,” Chris says, tone dry. “You only make it about him. Well, him or Abuela, but you look way less happy when it’s Abuela.”
“I do not—”
“Dad.” Chris lifts his brows, pure teenage certainty. “It’s definitely Buck.”
He meets his son’s eyes and realizes he’s doomed.
He sighs. “Maybe.”
Chris breaks into a grin. “Cool.”
Cool.
Sure.
Cool.
He lasts exactly twelve hours before the spiral begins.
He’s at the kitchen table after dinner, pen poised over a blank notepad. The page contains:
SECRET SANTA IDEAS FOR BUCK (DO NOT LET HIM SEE THIS)
Underneath, he’s written exactly nothing.
“This is ridiculous,” he mutters.
“It kind of is,” Chris agrees from the couch, not looking up from his tablet.
Eddie glares half-heartedly. “Thought you were watching a movie.”
“Multitasking,” Christopher says. “You’re talking out loud.”
He is, unfortunately.
He taps the pen against the paper, brain whirring. Buck likes…what? Everything. Too many things. Buck is a Golden Retriever in human form; he loves surfing and video games and cooking and building LEGO sets with Chris and stupid puns and terrible Christmas movies and—
“This should be easy,” Eddie tells the notebook. “I know him.”
And he does. He knows that Buck doesn’t actually like that one brand of protein bars everyone assumes he loves—he just bought too many once and refuses to waste them. He knows Buck’s leg still aches when it gets cold and that he hates sleeping with socks on. He knows Buck’s favorite mug at the firehouse is the chipped one with the faded cartoon Dalmatian, and that he hums under his breath when he’s concentrating, little snatches of songs that get stuck in Eddie’s head for hours.
He knows that Buck will spend his last twenty bucks on takeout for someone else and pretend he doesn’t care.
He knows that Buck’s face does a weird, complicated thing when Chris casually calls him “Buck” in the same tone he uses for “Abuela” and “Tía Pepa,” like it short-circuits something tender in his brain.
This should be easy.
It isn’t.
He writes:
Surf wax?
New board shorts?
Target gift card (no, boring)
Something for the new house (what??)
Joke gift? (no he deserves real gift)
Photo stuff (too expensive???)
He stares at the list until the words blur. Everything either feels too generic or too much.
He flips the notebook closed with a sigh.
“I need help,” he announces.
From the couch, Chris says, “You’re really going a little crazy girl about this, huh?”
Eddie throws a balled-up napkin at him. “Where did you even hear that?”
“May,” Chris says, smug. “She said that’s what you’re being about Buck anyway.”
“Oh my God.”
“Just ask her what to get him,” Chris says. “She’s smart.”
He is not being outsmarted by his teenage son. Or May. Probably.
…He is absolutely asking May.
He starts with Hen.
In his defense, that feels logical. Hen is a reasonable person. Sensible. She’ll give a normal, cool-headed answer, and then Eddie can stop being like this.
They’re at the station kitchen table after morning drills, cooling down with coffee. Hen is scrolling through her phone; Karen’s stopping by later with lunch, and Hen’s smile whenever she mentions her is enough to make Eddie weirdly warm inside.
“Hypothetically,” he starts.
Hen snorts. “Already a bad sign.”
“Hhypothetically,” he continues, glaring, “if you had to get, like, the perfect Secret Santa present for someone, what would you do?”
Hen looks up slowly. “Depends who the someone is.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, clearly not believing him. “Male or female?”
“Hen.”
“Male, then,” she deduces in that same tone she uses when she knows an airway obstruction is three steps away from a full code. “Is this, or is this not, about you getting Buck?”
Eddie chokes on air. “I—how—”
“You did the face,” she says. “The one you do when you’re thinking about him and trying not to.”
“What face? Why is everyone suddenly united on this?”
Hen just arches a brow. “So. Hypothetically. You want to get him the perfect present.”
“It’s Secret Santa. There’s a budget.”
“Right,” Hen says. “And absolutely no one has ever gone over a budget in the history of Christmas.”
“I’m not going over the budget.”
“You’re already going over it in your heart.”
“That’s not how budgets work.”
She smiles, softening. “Okay, fine. What did you think of?”
He slides the notebook over, open to his sad little list.
Hen reads it, lips twitching. “Surf wax? Real daring.”
“I’m trying not to be weird,” he mutters.
“Eddie,” she says, “you’re consulting me about a thirty-to-seventy-five-dollar gift like it’s a marriage proposal. I got news for you: we passed ‘weird’ at the on-ramp.”
He buries his face in his hands. “Hen.”
She taps the notebook. “What does he complain about lately?”
“What?”
“When we’re in the rig,” she says, like she’s teaching. “What does he complain about? That he’s sore? Tired? That his back’s messed up? What does he forget to buy for himself because he’s too busy buying for everyone else?”
Eddie thinks about it. “He said his leg has been killing him. And his back. And his shoulder.” He frowns. “Okay, he said his whole body is killing him, but that’s just Buck.”
Hen nods. “Massage gun. Foam roller. Nice one. In budget, practical but also says ‘I notice when you’re hurting.’”
That…actually sounds good.
He scribbles it down, and for a second, the anxiety quiets. “Yeah. That could—yeah.”
Hen smiles. “Look at that. Solution.”
And then Eddie thinks: is that too practical? Too older-brother? Does that say “I care about your muscle recovery” more than it says “I care about you”?
The noise he makes must show on his face, because Hen sighs. “Oh my God. You’re still spiraling.”
“This is harder than buying something for Chris,” Eddie says helplessly. “At least with Chris I can ask directly without lying.”
“You could ask Buck,” Hen points out. “’Hey man, if someone were to get you—’”
“No,” Eddie says quickly. “No, that’s—I can’t. It has to be perfect and a surprise.”
Hen’s smile goes a little crooked, fond. “You know ‘perfect’ isn’t a real thing, right?”
“Tell that to Buck,” he mutters, and the words slip out before he can stop them.
Hen’s gaze softens. “He’d like almost anything from you,” she says. “You know that.”
He knows. That’s kind of the problem.
Hen, unfortunately, was the sensible stop.
Everyone after that just makes it worse.
Karen meets him at their kitchen island later that week, a glass of wine in hand, her expression halfway between amused and intrigued.
“So,” she says, “you want my professional opinion.”
“You’re good at…people.” Eddie says.
“Most people,” she says dryly. “I’m not sure anyone’s good at you.”
“Thanks.”
She smiles. “Tell me what you’ve thought of, and what makes you veto each thing.”
He pulls the notebook out again. At this point, it has several additional pages and one very judgmental coffee stain.
Karen skims. “Okay, surf stuff, workout stuff, house stuff, camera stuff.” She glances up. “He still doing all that? Surfing at dawn, running in the evenings, staying up too late editing photographs he never shows anyone?”
“Yeah,” Eddie says, and then realizes how pathetic he sounds.
Karen hums. “What makes you say no to the surf wax?”
“Too cheap,” he says. “Too obvious. He can get himself surf wax. He does get himself surf wax.”
“And the camera strap?”
“Too expensive. The nice ones are over budget. And too personal, maybe? I don’t know. The strap he has now is…fine.”
She levels him with a look. “Does he complain about it?”
“Sometimes,” Eddie admits. “It digs into his neck.”
“And you’ve noticed that.”
“Well, yeah. It leaves a mark.”
“And you don’t think that qualifies as ‘thoughtful.’”
“I think,” Eddie says slowly, “it qualifies as ‘dangerous’ in terms of…tone.”
Karen hides a smile behind her glass. “Tone.”
“If I get him something that sits against his skin, that’s—”
“Intimate,” she supplies.
“Yes!”
“And intimacy is bad.”
“Yes.” Then, “No. I mean. It’s not bad, it’s just—this is Secret Santa. It’s supposed to be fun and light and not a referendum on how much you—” He cuts himself off. “It’s complicated.”
Karen studies him for a long moment. “What’s his favorite thing to do with you that doesn’t involve work?”
Eddie blinks. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He thinks about it. “Movie nights? We do those a lot. And cooking. He likes trying new recipes. And building stuff with Chris. And—”
“What makes him light up?” Karen interrupts gently. “Specifically with you.”
Eddie’s mouth goes dry. He thinks of Buck showing up with takeout and that stupid grin. Of Buck sprawled on Eddie’s couch, socks mismatched, arguing with Chris about whether pineapple belongs on pizza. Of Buck holding Chris’s crutches with care like they’re precious.
“He likes feeding people,” Eddie says quietly. “Us. He likes cooking. He says it makes him feel…”
“Useful?” Karen suggests.
“Home,” Eddie says, surprised by his own word choice. “I think it makes him feel like he has a place.”
Karen’s expression softens. “So maybe the gift isn’t about surfing or running,” she says. “Maybe it’s about that.”
He writes: Something for cooking? But special??
He underlines it three times.
Chimney is zero help.
“I’m just saying,” Chim insists in the locker room, “nothing says ‘I care about you’ like a tasteful calendar of shirtless firefighters.”
“That’s literally his day job,” Eddie says, shoving his sneakers into his bag. “He doesn’t need more firemen.”
“What about a novelty mug?” Chim barrels on. “World’s Okayest Buck. Or ‘I put the Ho in Ho Ho Ho.’”
“I’m not getting Buck a mug that calls him a ho,” Eddie mutters. “He’d never stop using it.”
“And that’s somehow a downside?” Chim waggles his eyebrows.
Eddie considers retiring from friendship.
“Look,” Chim says, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re overthinking this. Get him something stupid and tacky, he’ll think it’s hilarious. Buck’s easy.”
That’s exactly the problem. Buck is easy—easy to please, easy to make laugh, easy to convince that he doesn’t deserve too much. He’ll like anything. He’ll act delighted even if Eddie hands him a rock with googly eyes.
“I don’t want ‘stupid and tacky,’” Eddie says. “I want—”
He stops.
Chim’s eyes narrow. “You want…?”
“Nothing,” Eddie says quickly. “I’m going to be late picking up Chris.”
He escapes under the cover of fatherhood, heart pounding.
Maddie is worse, because Maddie doesn’t even pretend she doesn’t know exactly what’s happening.
They meet up for coffee on one of Eddie’s days off, Chris commandeering a corner table with a hot chocolate, his headphones, and a cookie he swore he didn’t want and is now demolishing between texts.
Maddie wraps her hands around her latte cup. “So,” she says, eyes sparkling. “You wanted to talk about Buck.”
“I never said that,” Eddie lies.
She tilts her head. “You texted me ‘hey, can I pick your brain about your brother,’ question mark.”
Traitorous past-Eddie.
He rubs a hand over his face. “I got him for Secret Santa.”
“I know,” she says calmly.
He freezes. “What—how—”
“Eddie,” she says gently, “if anyone was going to get Buck, the universe was going to make sure it was you.”
He is going to sue the universe for emotional damages.
Maddie smiles. “What are you thinking of getting him?”
He slides the notebook over.
She scans the pages, and for a second, her expression goes very soft. “You wrote categories?”
“It made sense at the time.”
“‘Practical things he needs but won’t buy for himself,’” she reads. “‘Things that remind him he’s loved.’ ‘Things that say I see you without saying I see you.’”
He wants the floor to swallow him whole. “I was brainstorming,” he mutters.
“Mmm,” she says, clearly unconvinced. “Well. This is…incredibly sweet, Eddie.”
He glares at his latte.
She taps one line. “What about this? ‘Something that makes breakfasts with Chris even better.’ What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “He already makes those ridiculous pancake shapes. I just—he gets so into it, you know? With Chris. I thought maybe—” He shrugs. “Maybe something that makes him feel like it’s…his thing, too.”
Maddie’s smile goes watery. “He loves those mornings,” she says quietly. “He calls me sometimes after, just to…talk about it.”
Eddie’s chest does something complicated.
“Growing up,” Maddie says, eyes going distant, “our grandma had this little wooden recipe box. Handwritten cards, notes in the margins, stains from a million meals. Buck used to pull it off the counter and read them like stories. I always thought he’d end up with it, but I took it when I ran.” She swallows. “I think he still thinks about it.”
Eddie looks up. “You still have it?”
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s…old. The box is falling apart. But the cards are okay. I could…copy some of them for you, if you wanted. Or we could scan them, print them. Maybe start him his own collection.”
The idea lights up his brain like Christmas lights. A box. Recipes from Maddie, from Bobby, from Hen, from everyone. Notes, little jokes, splatters. Something Buck can add to.
Something that says: you belong here, in this family, in this kitchen, in this life.
His heart kicks. “Could I—would you be okay with that?”
Maddie’s eyes shine. “I’d love it,” she says. “Honestly. It’d feel…right.”
He writes: Recipe box. Everyone’s recipes. Blank cards. Buck’s own.
The words sit on the page, startlingly solid.
“Eddie?” Maddie says softly.
“Yeah.”
“You know he’d lose his mind over this, right?” she says. “He’d probably cry.”
“Great,” he mutters. “That’s exactly what I want. To make him cry in front of everyone.”
Maddie laughs. “Not a bad goal.”
He rolls his eyes, but warmth unfurls in his chest. For the first time, the gift feels like something that could work.
Which, obviously, means he immediately starts worrying that it’s too much.
Athena catches him pacing on her front porch two days later like a teenager about to ask someone to prom.
She opens the door with one eyebrow raised. “You gonna wear a groove into my steps, Diaz?”
“Sorry,” he says, freezing. “I, uh, was just—”
“Being weird,” she supplies. “Come in.”
He steps inside, awkwardly holding a small bag of tamales he’d brought as a pretext. The house smells like pine and cinnamon and whatever magic Bobby has in his spice cabinet.
Athena accepts the bag with a smile and gestures to the couch. “What’s on your mind?”
He sits, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “Did Maddie call you?”
“No,” Athena says. “But Hen did.”
Of course she did.
Athena sits across from him, posture relaxed. “So you’re having an existential crisis over a Christmas gift.”
“I wouldn’t call it—”
“You’re canvassing the entire friend group,” she says. “Eddie, that’s canvassing. That’s detective-level nonsense.”
He grimaces. “I just don’t want to screw it up.”
“Who is it?” she asks. “Who’d you get?”
He hesitates. “If I say ‘hypothetically,’ you’re just gonna roll your eyes again, right?”
“Correct.”
“…It’s Buck.”
“Mm,” she says, unsurprised. “And you want it to be perfect.”
He nods, staring at his hands.
“Why?” she asks gently.
He looks up, confused. “What do you mean, why?”
“I mean,” Athena says, “you know him. You’ve bought him gifts before. Birthdays, thank-yous, whatever. Why does this one feel different?”
Because Secret Santa means he can’t hide behind Chris. Because this is from him, just him, and everyone will see whatever he chooses as representative of how he feels. Because there’s a budget and rules and it’s supposed to be lighthearted, and he is incapable of being light anything when it comes to Buck.
But he can’t say that.
He goes with: “I don’t know. It just does.”
Athena’s eyes are kind. “I think you do know,” she says, “but that’s your business. Let me say this: Buck is easy to please. He’s been easy to please his entire life, because he learned early that if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t get much.”
Eddie’s throat closes.
“You giving him anything,” Athena says, “will mean something. You giving him something that says you see him? That’s…a lot.”
He swallows. “So I shouldn’t?”
“I’m saying,” Athena says, “if you’re going to do that, you don’t need to run it past everyone else first. You already know who he is. You pay attention in a way most people don’t.”
He thinks of the notebook, the lists. The way he’s catalogued Buck’s smiles, Buck’s habits.
He doesn’t feel like that should be true, but it is.
He looks down at his hands. “I keep asking everyone because I’m scared I’m missing something.”
Athena smiles, just a little. “You’re scared you’re too close,” she says. “That’s different.”
The words land with a thud in his chest.
He leaves with more questions than answers, but he also leaves with the sense that maybe—just maybe—he’s allowed to trust himself.
Which is, predictably, when May and Harry get involved.
“You’re totally overthinking this,” May says, stretching out on the Diaz couch like she lives there. Which, given how often she hangs out here, isn’t wrong.
Christopher is very much awake, hoodie up, long legs sprawled out, earbuds in, pretending to watch something on his phone. A half-finished LEGO set is still on the coffee table, but only because he tapped out halfway through and declared he had “bigger things going on.”
He’s absolutely listening.
“I know I’m overthinking this,” Eddie says. “I’m trying to underthink it.”
“That’s not a word,” Harry says, scrolling through his phone. “You should get him something cool. Like tickets for you both to do something. An experience.”
“That’s what I said,” May adds. “Escape room. Concert. Axe throwing.”
From the armchair, Chris doesn’t look up, but he does mutter, “Please don’t give Buck an axe.”
“I am not giving Buck axes,” Eddie says automatically. “That’s a bad idea.”
“It’d be fun,” Harry says. “Plus, then you’d have to go with him. Built-in date.”
Eddie chokes. “It’s not—a date. It’s Secret Santa.”
May looks at him over her phone, unimpressed. “You literally color-coded a spreadsheet about his hobbies.”
“I did not—”
She flips his notebook open to the page where, yes, he has drawn a tiny chart.
Chris, without looking up: “Dad, you used highlighters. Multiple.”
“Okay,” Eddie says. “Fine. I maybe organized some thoughts.”
“Eddie,” May says, voice softening. “Why are you asking us? Honestly.”
“Because you’re young and hip?”
“Stop,” Harry groans.
“No, seriously,” Eddie insists. “I don’t want to…make it weird.”
Chris snorts so loudly one earbud falls out.
“It’s Buck,” Harry says. “It’s already weird.”
May snorts.
Eddie rubs his eyes. “Helpful.”
“Look,” May says, sitting up. “What do you want him to feel when he opens it?”
The question catches him off guard.
He thinks of Buck’s face when he opens gifts from Chris—like he’s not sure he deserves the attention, like he’s braced for disappointment and then stunned when it’s not there. Of the way he lit up last Christmas when Bobby gave him that engraved spatula—ridiculous, but personal.
“Seen,” Eddie says quietly. “Wanted. Like he…belongs.”
May’s expression goes soft and fierce all at once. “Then do that,” she says. “You’re literally the person who makes him feel that way the most.”
Eddie stares at her.
She shrugs. “Just saying what everyone’s thinking.”
From the armchair, Chris mutters, “Facts.”
Eddie glares at him. Chris pretends he said nothing.
He looks down at the notebook.
RECIPE BOX, he’s written, circled.
FAMILY RECIPES. NOTES. BLANK CARDS.
BUCK’S KITCHEN.
Maybe that’s the answer.
Eddie is sitting on the back step of the station after shift, gear half-off, the night cool and quiet. Ravi is sipping from a protein shake and scrolling on his phone. Eddie is staring at absolutely nothing, jaw tight, notebook open on his knee.
Ravi glances over. Pauses.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Eddie says immediately. Too immediately. “Why?”
Ravi gestures with his chin. “You’ve been aggressively underlining that word for, like, a full minute.”
Eddie looks down. He has, in fact, carved a groove into the page beneath BUCK’S KITCHEN.
“…Huh,” he says. “Didn’t realize.”
Ravi hums. “Wanna talk about it, or should I pretend this is a normal thing grown men do?”
Eddie exhales through his nose. “I got Buck for Secret Santa.”
“Oh,” Ravi says, instantly understanding far more than Eddie wants him to. “Ohhh.”
“It’s not—” Eddie starts. Stops. Rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know why I’m like this.”
Ravi shifts, turning his body toward him. “Like…what?”
“Like I’m trying to solve a murder instead of buy a gift,” Eddie says. “There’s a budget. It’s supposed to be fun. And I’m over here making lists and consulting half the city.”
Ravi blinks. “You’ve consulted people?”
“Hen. Karen. Chim. Maddie. Athena. May. Harry.” He grimaces. “My kid told me I’m ‘spiraling.’”
Ravi lets out a low whistle. “That’s…a lot of focus groups.”
“I just don’t want to mess it up,” Eddie says quietly. “Buck doesn’t…expect much. And I want him to—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Never mind.”
Ravi watches him for a long moment, then says, carefully, “You know most people don’t put this much thought into Secret Santa, right?”
“I know,” Eddie mutters. “That’s the problem.”
Ravi considers that. Then, gently, “What are you actually afraid of?”
Eddie’s fingers curl around the notebook. “That if I get it wrong,” he says, voice low, “it’ll feel like I didn’t see him. And I do. I see him all the time.”
Ravi’s expression softens.
“Eddie,” he says, “I’ve known Buck, like, a year. And even I know that if you handed him a paper bag and said ‘I thought of you,’ he’d treasure it.”
Eddie huffs. “That’s not helping.”
“No,” Ravi agrees. “But here’s the thing.” He nods toward the notebook. “Whatever that is? That’s not about the gift. That’s about how much you care.”
Eddie swallows.
Ravi smiles, small and knowing. “So maybe stop asking everyone else what Buck would want. Because honestly?”
He shrugs. “You’re the Buck expert.”
It takes work.
He spends his next few days off driving around like a man on a mission, which he technically is.
From Hen and Karen, he gets three recipes: Karen’s mac and cheese, Hen’s cornbread, and the spicy chili that has rescued half their friend group on cold nights. Hen writes notes in the margins—“don’t let Buck skimp on the cheese :)” and “tell him this is grandma-level cornbread; pressure’s on.”
From Chim, he gets a recipe for his mom’s japchae, complete with a doodled little Chim face saying “Good luck, Buck!!!!!” and several exclamation marks.
From Bobby, he gets the cleaned-up, family-friendly version of his famous jambalaya, written in a neat, precise hand writing. At the bottom, in smaller script, Bobby adds: For Buck—so you can make this when you’re the one doing Sunday dinners. Eddie almost cries in the loft kitchen.
From Athena, he gets a recipe for sweet tea and a note: You are part of this chaos now. Buck, don’t forget that. —A.
Maddie spends an afternoon with him at her dining table, carefully copying their grandmother’s cards onto new ones in Buck’s handwriting style—she was always good at mimicry. They leave the stains and little misspellings intact.
“This one was his favorite,” she says, tapping a pancake recipe. “He used to ask her to make it every time we visited.”
He takes the card like it’s made of glass.
He buys a simple wooden recipe box from a craft store, then spends another evening staining it in his garage, hands smelling like varnish for hours. He carves a small symbol on the inside of the lid—not words, just a little fire truck and a sun and a tiny stick figure with crutches that definitely looks like Christopher. It’s stupid and lopsided and he loves it.
He orders a stack of blank index cards and divides them into sections, labeling them with neat tabs: Breakfast. Dinner. Desserts. Diaz Family. 118. Yours.
On impulse, and because he can’t help himself, he also buys a good-quality denim apron online—nothing too flashy, just sturdy, with pockets. He goes a little over budget to have one word embroidered in the corner:
BUCK.
No Mister, no title, no goofy phrase. Just his name, solid and his.
By the time the package arrives, Eddie’s credit card is wincing and his stomach is in knots.
He lays everything out on his kitchen table the night before the exchange, arranging and rearranging, second-guessing every piece.
“It’s perfect,” Christopher says, with the unearned confidence of a fourteen-year-old who has participated in exactly one Secret Santa and therefore considers himself an expert. He stretches, already half-checked-out for the night. “Can we go to sleep now? You’re spiraling and it’s making me anxious.”
“Are you sure it’s not too much?” Eddie asks for the seventeenth time.
“Yes,” Chris says, drawing out the word like he’s explaining something to a toddler. “It’s like…you put Buck in a box. But in a nice way. Not like kidnapping.”
“Fantastic,” Eddie mutters. “Just the vibe I was going for.”
Chris snorts, then hesitates. “Dad?”
“Yeah, bud?”
“You know you’re his favorite person too, right?”
Eddie’s heart stutters. “What?”
Chris shrugs one shoulder, casual in that way only teenagers can be when dropping emotional truth bombs. “He always looks at you like you’re Christmas,” he says simply. “Even when it’s not Christmas.”
Eddie stares at the box, at the apron, at the little sun he carved inside the lid.
He doesn’t sleep much.
Bobby and Athena’s house is glowing.
Lights along the roof, wreath on the door, the big tree in the living room covered in ornaments that tell a whole story if you look close enough—stations and weddings and kids growing up. The place hums with warmth and laughter and the smell of cinnamon rolls.
Everyone’s already there when Eddie and Chris arrive, gifts piled under the tree, music playing softly.
“Diaz!” Chim cheers, wearing a Santa hat at a jaunty angle. “About time. The party can start.”
“It started an hour ago,” Hen says. She eyes the carefully wrapped box in Eddie’s hands, the weight of it familiar now. “That it?”
“Maybe,” Eddie says.
Buck appears from the kitchen, cheeks flushed, hair a little wild like he’s been taste-testing everything. He’s in a green sweater that makes his eyes stupidly bright.
“Hey,” he says, grinning wide when he sees them. “You made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Eddie says, and it comes out softer than he intends.
Buck’s gaze flicks to the present. “Ooh, fancy wrapping. Hope whoever gets that knows how lucky they are.”
Eddie’s ears burn. “Guess we’ll see.”
They do the usual party things first—food, drinks, Chris launching into an extremely detailed, borderline TED Talk–level recap of his school holiday concert. He insists he didn’t want to do it, but then proceeds to describe every lighting cue, the mic feedback incident, and how his friend Leo missed his entrance and is now a running joke in the freshman class group chat.
Harry and May mock-argue in the background about who’s better at Mario Kart, while Chris waves his hands to reenact the choreography he definitely rolled his eyes at during rehearsals but now performs with alarming accuracy.
Eddie laughs in all the right places, but his eyes keep drifting back to the tree. To the box. To Buck.
Finally, Bobby claps his hands. “All right, people. Secret Santa time.”
They gather around. Names are called; gifts are passed out.
Hen opens a set of fancy pens she immediately accuses Karen of orchestrating, which Karen doesn’t deny. Chim crows in delight over a novelty mug that says “Trust me, I’m almost a doctor.” Maddie gets a cozy blanket and a scented candle that makes her eyes suspiciously shiny. Athena unwraps a pair of fuzzy socks with little police badges on them and laughs for five minutes straight.
Eddie’s heart hammers harder with each gift.
And then: “Buck,” Bobby says. “You’re up.”
Buck drops into the open space near the tree, cross-legged, eyes bright and boyish. Bobby passes him the box, and Eddie watches his hands close around it.
“This one,” Bobby says, “was delivered with a note that said ‘Please don’t let Buck guess who it’s from before he opens it.’”
Everyone laughs.
“Challenge accepted,” Buck says. He lifts the box, weighing it. “Okay, not Chim. Too serious wrapping. Not Hen, no cat stickers. Not May, she would’ve used glitter.”
“Rude,” May says.
Buck pokes at the corner. “Not Athena, she’d have written a threatening message on the tag.” Athena raises her wine in acknowledgment. “Not Bobby, he’d just hand it to me in a grocery bag.” Bobby splutters. “Not Karen, this paper doesn’t say ‘I shop at fancy places.’”
He looks around, gaze landing, just for a second, on Eddie.
Eddie looks studiously at the tree.
“Huh,” Buck says. “Mysterious. Okay, let’s do this.”
He peels back the tape carefully, because of course he does. folds the paper like he might reuse it. Eddie’s chest aches.
The lid comes off.
Buck goes very still.
For a heartbeat, the room quiets.
“Whoa,” he breathes.
He lifts the recipe box out carefully, fingers tracing the smooth wood, the little carved sun inside the lid. He flips through the cards, eyes skimming the labels.
“Pan de polvo,” he reads softly. “From Pepa. ‘Don’t let Buck eat the dough raw.’”
There’s a ripple of laughter.
“Jambalaya,” he murmurs. “From Bobby. ‘House rule: Buck’s in charge of the sausage.’”
Hen cackles. “That sounds wrong.”
“Shut up,” Buck says faintly, not really listening. His fingers tremble just a little as he turns the cards. “Karen’s mac and cheese. Hen’s chili. Chim’s japchae. Athena’s sweet tea.” His voice wobbles. “Maddie’s—oh.”
He’s hit the pancakes.
His thumb lingers on the edge of the card, tracing their grandmother’s loopy writing, the little spilled stain.
He swallows hard.
“Hey,” Maddie says gently from the couch, eyes wet. “Surprise.”
He blinks rapidly, eyes suspiciously shiny. “I—this is—who—”
He cut himself off, maybe not actually wanting to know yet.
He sets the box down carefully, like it’s sacred, and notices the stack of blank cards and the tabs.
“‘Yours,’” he reads aloud, a breath of a laugh in his voice. “You left me my own section?”
He looks around then, gaze darting, and lands squarely on Eddie.
Eddie’s stomach flips.
Buck’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly.
“Is this—” he starts, and then just…stops.
Eddie shrugs, trying for casual. “Thought you might want somewhere to put your stuff,” he says. “You’re always trying new recipes. Figured you needed…a home for them.”
For a second, it feels like no one else is in the room.
Buck’s face does something Eddie doesn’t have a word for. Soft and overwhelmed and astonished, like he’s never been given something like this before and doesn’t quite know how to process it.
Then his gaze catches on the apron, folded beneath the tissue paper.
He lifts it out slowly.
“Of course,” Chim says, seeing the name. “We’re never gonna hear the end of ‘Chef Buck.’”
Buck doesn’t say anything.
He just rubs his thumb over the embroidery, over his name, and laughs under his breath—a small, disbelieving sound.
“This is…” he starts, then tries again. “It’s—wow.”
“You like it?” Eddie asks, hating how nervous he sounds.
Buck looks up at him, and there’s nothing subtle about the way his eyes shine now.
“Eddie,” he says, voice low and rough. “It’s—it’s perfect.”
Something loosens in Eddie’s chest, a knot he didn’t realize he’d been holding since he pulled that slip of paper from the snowman bowl.
“I figured,” Eddie says, trying for light, “now you have no excuse not to cook more.”
“Oh, I will absolutely be using this to force-feed you all constantly,” Buck says, but his smile is shaky. He flips through the cards again, fingertips gentle. “You got recipes from everyone? And you—” He pauses, looking back at the little carved figures inside the lid. “You drew Chris,” he says softly.
“Yeah,” Eddie says, ears hot. “Thought it should…feel like all of us. You’re, uh. You’re part of all this, you know?”
The room is very quiet.
Buck’s throat works. He sets the apron down and closes the lid for a moment like he’s absorbing it.
Then he opens it again, like he can’t bear to have it closed.
“Okay, who had ‘Eddie makes Buck cry before dessert’ on their bingo card?” Hen whispers. Karen elbows her.
Bobby clears his throat, eyes suspiciously wet. “Well,” he says. “Looks like we know which house Christmas breakfast is at this year.”
“Oh yeah,” Chim says. “We’re eating pancakes until we die.”
Buck laughs wetly, wiping at his eyes. “I guess I better start practicing,” he says, voice still a little wrecked.
Eddie’s heart feels too big for his ribcage.
Later, when the wrapping paper’s all in trash bags and the kids are half-asleep on the couch and the others are in the kitchen arguing about dishwashing, Buck finds him out back.
The night is cool and clear, the city lights stretching out beyond Athena and Bobby’s yard. Eddie leans against the deck railing, breathing in the quiet.
Buck’s footsteps are easy to recognize.
“Hey,” Buck says softly, coming to stand beside him. He cradles the recipe box against his chest like it’s something precious. The apron hangs over his shoulder. “Hiding?”
“Taking a break from Chim’s impression of Santa,” Eddie says. “He’s starting to believe he actually is him.”
Buck huffs a laugh, then falls quiet.
After a moment, he says, “You really did all this?”
“Yeah,” Eddie says, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry if it was—if it’s too much. I got a little carried away.”
“A little?” Buck’s mouth quirks. “You commissioned a whole library of food.”
Eddie winces. “I can get you something else if it’s—”
“Eddie,” Buck says, and there’s enough feeling in his voice that Eddie shuts up.
Buck looks down at the box, then back up at him. “No one’s ever…done something like this for me,” he says quietly. “Not like…this. It’s—God, I don’t even know how to explain it.”
“You don’t have to,” Eddie says, throat tight. “I just…wanted you to have a place to put things. Your things. With…with ours.”
Buck’s eyes search his face. “You really see me, huh?”
The question is so soft Eddie almost misses it.
He swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
Buck’s lips curve, that small, startled smile he gets when something hits too close to the bone. “Guess all my very subtle interests weren’t subtle enough.”
“Oh, your very subtle ten-minute monologue about cast iron seasoning?” Eddie says. “Yeah, real under the radar.”
Buck laughs, head tipping back.
The sound sinks into Eddie’s bones, warm and easy.
“Thank you,” Buck says after a long moment, voice serious again. “Really. For…for knowing me this well. For caring enough to make it a whole…thing.”
Eddie shrugs, trying for nonchalant even as his heart hammers. “You’re worth the…thing,” he says, and yeah, okay, that wasn’t smooth at all.
Buck just looks at him, something tender and wondering in his eyes.
“Hey,” he says suddenly, like he’s just remembered. “There’s, um. An IOU in there too, right?”
Eddie blinks. “An IOU?”
Buck nods toward the box. “For the breakfast. You wrote on the back of one of the cards.”
Oh. Right. The part Eddie had added at the last second, late last night, when his courage outweighed his good sense for exactly thirty seconds.
He clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean, that’s—optional. You don’t have to use it.”
Buck opens the box with one hand, flips through until he finds it: a blank card, Eddie’s cramped handwriting on the back.
Redeem for one breakfast at Casa Diaz, made by you, supervised by me and Chris. No take-backs. —E
Buck traces the words like they’re some secret code.
“I’m using it,” he says. “Immediately.”
“Immediately?” Eddie echoes.
“Tomorrow,” Buck says. “I’m coming over. We’re making pancakes. I’m putting this thing to use.” He taps the box.
Eddie’s brain does a quick, panicked loop—house not clean, need more eggs, oh God, this is happening—and then settles into a slow, warm hum.
“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”
Buck smiles, wide and bright and maybe a little shy. “Cool.”
He hesitates for a moment, then steps in, quick and sure, and wraps one arm carefully around Eddie in a half-hug that doesn’t disturb the box between them.
Eddie freezes for half a second and then hugs him back.
Buck’s sweater is soft under his fingers. He smells like cinnamon and soap and something that, by now, Eddie’s brain just files as safe.
“Seriously,” Buck murmurs near his ear. “Best gift I’ve ever gotten.”
Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, just for a second, and lets himself believe it.
That night, when he finally collapses into bed, Eddie flips open the notebook that started this whole ridiculous spiral.
SECRET SANTA IDEAS FOR BUCK (DO NOT LET HIM SEE THIS)
Under the scribbles and arrows and scratched-out lists, he writes:
Actual gift: recipe box + apron + breakfast IOU.
Conclusion: everyone was right. I knew what to get him the whole time. Just didn’t trust myself.
He stares at it, then adds, almost as an afterthought:
Also conclusion: I am absolutely, one hundred percent, going a little crazy girl about him.
He snorts at himself, closes the notebook, and turns off the light.
Tomorrow morning, Buck will show up at his door with that box and that apron and that smile, and they’ll stand shoulder to shoulder in Eddie’s kitchen, flipping pancakes while Chris provides commentary.
It’s just breakfast, he tells himself.
Just a Secret Santa gift.
Just his best friend, who he apparently builds entire culinary shrines for.
Eddie falls asleep with a ridiculous, helpless smile on his face and dreams of Buck in that apron, flour on his cheek, laughing in the warm glow of the Diaz kitchen.
And if that’s not its own kind of gift, he doesn’t know what is.