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The front door swings open at 1:47 a.m. Buck tries to close it quietly, but the wood catches and the lock clicks too loud in the silence. Eddie is on the couch, waiting. The lights are off except for the low amber glow over the stove—just enough to catch the uneven sway in Buck’s step, the flushed color in his cheeks, the damp sheen at his collar, the crooked way his mouth tilts like he’s just been kissed.
Eddie wonders if he can still taste them on his tongue.
“Oh,” Buck says when he notices him, blinking slowly, his voice softened by the effects of the alcohol. He sounds unaware—of himself, of what he’s dragging in with him. “Hey.”
Eddie says nothing. Instead, he watches.
Buck toes off his shoes and lines them up by the door. Shrugs out of his jacket. His movements are loose, unguarded, buoyed by alcohol and smug satisfaction. His hair is wrecked—fingers dragged through it repeatedly, maybe not all of them his. His mouth is still pink and swollen, a dark bruise blooming along the line of his jaw where someone’s mouth lingered too long.
Eddie nods. “You’re back late.”
Buck smiles easily. “Lost track of time.”
“Mm.” Eddie hums. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” Buck wanders into the kitchen, grabs a glass and fills it with water, gulping it down. The hickey darkens when he swallows. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“No reason,” Eddie says. “Just figured I’d know where you were.”
Buck shrugs. “Out.”
“I gathered.”
Something in Eddie’s tone makes Buck tilt his head, curiosity sharpening into interest. “You waiting up for me, Diaz?”
“You left without saying where you were going.”
Buck glances over his shoulder. “Didn’t know I had to check in.”
“You don’t,” Eddie snaps before he can stop himself. He reins it back in. “But you could’ve said something. Chris asked when you were coming back. I didn’t know what to tell him.”
Buck stops mid‑step, fingers curling around the back of a chair. He’s still swaying, breath a little uneven. He considers this, then looks over his shoulder.
“So,” he says, “are you pissed I was gone, or pissed you couldn’t keep tabs on me?”
Eddie shrugs. “You came home drunk.”
“Tipsy,” Buck corrects. “And satisfied.”
“You should be more careful.”
Buck tilts his head. The mark on his neck is impossible to miss now, red‑purple and ugly and intimate. “Careful about what?”
“About coming home with marks,” Eddie says, before he can stop himself.
There it is. Buck’s smile sharpens. “Marks,” he repeats. “That’s what you’re worried about.”
“I don’t want Chris seeing that.”
Buck’s brows lift. The corner of his mouth twitches—not a smile. Something meaner. “Didn’t realize you’d started doing inspections.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” Buck says. “That’s what’s throwing me.”
Eddie steps closer. “You’re drunk.”
“Yeah. A little.” Buck releases the chair and leans back against the counter with infuriating ease, as if the room belongs to him, as if Eddie isn’t standing there unraveling. “But I’m not stupid.”
“No one said you were.”
“No?” Buck’s eyes narrow. “Then what is this? Friendly concern? Or are you just pissed it wasn’t you under me tonight?”
The air leaves Eddie’s lungs in a rush he can’t stop. “Watch your mouth.”
“You want to talk about the bed I was in, let’s talk about it,” Buck continues, voice dropping lower. “You want to talk about the noises they made while I fucked them, the scratches you’d still be able to see if I lifted—”
“Buck.”
“No. I come home and you’re sitting here pretending this is about responsibility.” Buck pushes off the counter and closes the distance, cruel in the patience he possesses. “You want to talk about responsibility? Let’s talk about how you get every time I come home smelling like someone who isn’t you.”
“I never said—”
“You never say anything,” Buck cuts in. “That’s the fucking issue.”
The kitchen feels smaller with every step Buck takes. The air thickens, overheated, charged with the tension Eddie created. Tension he can’t decide if he wants to run from, or submit to. Eddie’s hands curl into fists at his sides. His mouth is dry. Buck is too close—his chest rising, eyes dark and blown wide, dangerous in a way Eddie’s never seen before.
“You get weird when I date,” Buck says. “You get worse when I fuck. Then you go back to being cool about it. Supportive. Happy for me.” His mouth twists. “I’m not blind, Eddie. I see how you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
“Who was it?” Eddie asks. The question slips out before he can stop it.
Buck laughs, short and humorless. “Does it matter?”
Eddie looks away. That’s answer enough.
Buck watches him, something bitter and almost wounded flashing across his face before it hardens again. “Would it have been easier if it was a woman?” he asks quietly. “If it was some petite, feminine figure with her knees pinned up, getting fucked so hard I made her forget her own name—”
“Buck.”
Buck leans in until Eddie can feel the heat off his body, smell the alcohol on his breath, the unfamiliar cologne lingering on his collar. “Or is that what’s eating at you? That it wasn’t a woman? That it was a guy, but it just wasn’t you.”
Eddie doesn’t answer. He can’t. His silence cracks loudly between them—louder than any confession.
Buck holds him there, breathing heavily, waiting. His jeans sit low on his hips, shirt pushed up just enough to reveal a bruise blooming along the side of his stomach. It's possessive. It's vulgar. It’s not Eddie’s.
Eddie’s voice scrapes out rougher than intended. “You’re going to wake Chris.”
Buck blinks once. Twice. Then he backs off just a step, scoffing. “Right. That’s what you’re worried about. The noise.”
“I don’t want him seeing you like this.”
Buck’s laugh is mean. “Seeing me how? Drunk? Touched?” His gaze locks onto Eddie’s. “Wanted?”
Eddie’s heart is slamming against his ribs, violent and desperate, and he wants to punch something or kiss something or throw Buck into the wall just to shut him up.
Buck studies him for a long moment before his mouth curls up into a cruel, knowing smirk.
“God,” Buck says quietly. “You really are a coward.”
It’s a devastating blow that rips the rug right out from under him, regret and desire locked in their usual graceless dance—spiraling tight and breathless into their familiar, punishing choreography inside his chest.
Buck turns and disappears down the hall without a backward glance, leaving Eddie stranded in the kitchen, his pulse roaring in his ears, the accusation ricocheting off the walls long after Buck’s footsteps fade.
Coward.