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Buck finds out by accident.
It’s one of those slow Sunday afternoons that feel like they shouldn’t end with sunlight coming in at that golden angle through Eddie’s living room window and the air conditioner humming softly. There's two beer bottles sweating rings into the wood of the coffee table, coasters forgotten on the other side of the room even though they'll both complain later about the wear on the table. Buck’s half-sprawled on the couch with his legs spread wide and arms stretched as far as he can reach, still laughing about some stupid video Hen sent to the group chat, when Eddie’s phone buzzes with a notification.
“Your mom texted,” Buck says without thinking, because Eddie’s phone is right there, face-up between them. He tries not to make a face. He might not be the biggest fan of Helena Diaz, but he knows Eddie's trying. For Chris. He doesn't think it's a smart idea. Not after Texas. But, he understands it, he does. It's like Maddie and their parents. She and Chim try to stay cordial for the sake of Jee and now also baby Nash. So he gets it, he does. Doesn't mean he has to like it.
Eddie looks up from his end of the couch, where he’s sitting much more properly, one ankle tucked up over his knee. “You reading my texts now?”
Buck grins, holding up his hands in mock defense. “Didn’t read! Just saw the preview pop up. Something about dance photos? Dude–what is that about? You never told me you were a dancer.”
Eddie’s eyes dart toward the phone, then to Buck, the faintest hint of a blush creeping into the high points of his face, cheeks going an adorably deep shade of red. “That was supposed to be a secret.”
“Secret?” Buck echoes, delighted at the new information. “From me?”
“From everyone.”
Buck sits up straighter at that and he's sure that he's grinning like an idiot. He does that sometimes, especially when he gets to learn something new about Eddie. “No, no, you can’t drop that and walk away. Eddie Diaz. Ballroom dancer. You’re joking.”
“I’m not joking,” Eddie mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“I was a kid. Quit when I uh–14? So through part of high school.” He pauses, hesitating just enough to make Buck’s grin grow wider. “Competition level.”
“Competition level?!”
Eddie groans. “Please don’t make it a big deal.”
“It is a big deal!” Buck laughs, practically bouncing in his seat. “You’re telling me you used to wear one of those sparkly outfits and what? Do the waltz?”
“It wasn’t sparkly,” Eddie insists, but his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile of his own. “And yeah, among others. Waltz, tango, rumba, cha-cha, foxtrot–”
“Foxtrot?” Buck interrupts. “Eddie. That’s adorable.”
“It was a hobby,” Eddie says like he's defending it, but he’s smiling now, small and a little helpless. It makes Buck’s heart do something weird in his chest. He’s seen that smile a hundred times, but not like this. Not all soft around the edges and a little shy, the hint of something private shining underneath. He's seen Eddie with that look before, sure. But never directed at him. He thinks the last time he saw a smile like this on his best friend's face was when he admitted calling Marisol at Chris’ insistence.
“That’s so–” Buck starts, then stops, because he doesn’t even know the word. Beautiful? Unexpected? Endearing? All of it. “That’s really cool. I mean, I can’t even dance. I’ve got two left feet. I’d trip over my own shadow.”
Eddie tilts his head, watching him in that quiet, unreadable way that always makes Buck feel both seen and undone in a way that borders almost on uncomfortable.
“You could learn.”
Buck snorts. “Oh, come on.”
“I’m serious,” Eddie says, setting his beer down after a quick sip and standing up. “It’s all about rhythm and trust. You already have the rhythm part. You just don’t trust yourself.”
“Okay, philosopher,” Buck says, but his voice comes out softer, without any of the teasing bite he meant to add. “You saying you could teach me?”
“You wanna try?”
The next thing Buck knows, the coffee table’s been nudged aside and Eddie’s pulling out his phone, scrolling until some gentle music fills the room. Something slow and violin heavy. It's old-fashioned but steady, like the kind of thing you’d hear in a movie ballroom scene.
Buck laughs nervously, rubbing his palms on his jeans. “You’re really serious about this, huh?”
“Dead serious.” Eddie steps closer, close enough that Buck can feel the warmth coming off him. “C’mere.”
Buck swallows. His heart’s beating way too fast for something so simple. It’s just dancing. Just learning. Just Eddie. It's not that weird, he tells himself. Friends do things like this all the time, sharing hobbies and likes and interests. He doesn't understand why his heart is threatening to jump from his chest or his hands are sweaty.
He steps forward.
Eddie reaches for his hand and it feels warm and solid under his own. Buck’s whole body goes still at the contact. He hadn’t realized until now how rare it was for Eddie to touch him like this, casually but with purpose. Usually, their touches happen in passing. Brushing shoulders, clapping each other’s backs, hands on knees in comfort. Sometimes they hug, wrapping around each other in a firm squeeze, or Eddie's thumb will drift to that spot by Buck's collarbone, the move that happens when things are too big to name and comfort isn't just a want but a need. But they don't touch like this. This is different. This is intentional.
“Okay,” Eddie says in that low but steady voice, the one he uses when he has to teach a paramedic class at the academy for his CEUs. “Left hand here.” He takes Buck’s left hand and sets it on the curve of his shoulder. “Right hand in mine.”
Buck obeys, albeit a bit clumsily. “And then what?”
Eddie smiles, guiding him gently into place. “Then you follow my lead.”
Buck tries to focus, really he does. But Eddie’s right there–smelling like soap and aftershave, eyes warm and intent when they meet his. The world feels smaller somehow, like the living room’s shrunk around them, like everything else has been pushed out so the world is narrowed to just them in this small space and the feeling of Eddie's hands on his body.
“Relax your shoulders,” Eddie murmurs.
“I am relaxed,” Buck lies, and Eddie’s low laugh rumbles through his chest and up under Buck’s hand.
They start to move around the room after that. It's slow and a little awkward at first. Buck steps too soon, then too late, then manages to stomp on Eddie’s foot.
“Shit–I–sorry!”
"I see what you mean. Two left feet.”
Buck groans. “Told you.”
But Eddie just squeezes his hand a little tighter. “We’ll fix that.”
And somehow, they do.
Slowly, impossibly, the rhythm finds them both. Eddie leads with quiet confidence, and Buck, who’s always been more chaos than grace, lets himself be guided. He learns the step pattern, lets his feet fall into the beat, trusts Eddie to pull him back when he oversteps.
Trust, he realizes. That’s what Eddie meant. That’s what this whole thing is.
And God, when he does trust–when he lets go–it feels good.
He laughs then, giddy and breathless, because he’s actually doing it. “Look at me!” he says, eyes bright as he chances a glance down at his feet that seem to be obeying him for the first time ever. “I’m dancing!”
“Barely,” Eddie teases, but his smile is soft when Buck looks back up.
They keep going. The song loops, then changes. The space between them shrinks until Buck’s not sure if it’s on purpose or by accident. His hand slips a little lower on Eddie’s shoulder, fingers brushing the nape of his neck and Eddie’s breath hitches, but doesn’t pull away.
Buck swallows hard. The air feels thick, heavy with something he can’t name. It's not the first time that he's been close to Eddie, that he's felt something pesky scratching at the base of his spine. But it is the first time he lets it travel, lets it settle without pushing it back or shoving it down.
He’s looking at Eddie’s mouth when he should be focusing on the steps. He’s thinking about how close they are and how easily he could lean forward, close that last inch…and he feels something sharp and overwhelming rise up in his chest.
It’s not new. It’s been there for years, maybe since that first rescue they ever did, maybe since that first shared laugh. But now it’s real, and undeniable, pressed right up against him in Eddie’s living room.
He loves him.
He loves him so much it hurts.
And suddenly he can’t breathe.
Eddie notices first, because of course he does. His hand tightens around Buck’s. “Hey,” he says quietly. “You okay?”
Buck blinks fast, tries to swallow it down, but his throat’s tight and his eyes sting. “Yeah,” he lies again, but his voice breaks in an ultimate betrayal.
“Buck.” Eddie’s tone softens, worry bleeding into it. “Talk to me.”
Buck tries. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a shaky breath. “I–sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Eddie’s hand slides up from his waist, slow but sure, until it's cradling Buck’s face. Until his palm is warm and steady under Buck's jaw, fingertips brushing the back of his ears. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Buck laughs weakly. “I’m crying. During a dance lesson.”
Eddie tilts his head, thumb brushing the corner of Buck’s eye where a tear’s slipped free. “You can cry, Buck. It happens sometimes, to the best of us. It’s allowed.”
That shouldn’t make it worse, but it does. Because the kindness in Eddie’s voice, the deep, visceral understanding, is too much.
“I just—” Buck tries again, shaking his head, breath catching. “You have no idea what this means to me.”
Eddie’s brow furrows, thumb still tracing slow circles against Buck’s skin. “Explain it to me.”
Buck meets his eyes, and it’s like standing at the edge of something vast. “Everything,” he whispers. “You–this—God, Eddie, I—”
The words dissolve. He doesn’t have the courage to finish them. But maybe he doesn’t have to, because Eddie’s eyes soften in a way that tells Buck he already knows.
The music keeps playing, slow and sweet, filling the silence between them.
Eddie exhales, like he’s made a decision. “Buck,” he says quietly, tipping Buck’s chin up with gentle fingers. “Look at me.”
Buck does.
And then Eddie leans in.
It’s soft, a barely a kiss at first. Just a brush of lips, tentative, careful, almost like a question. Buck freezes, breath stuttering, and then he’s answering, leaning in, their lips meeting more firmly in a second, less tentative touch.
The world tilts. Everything narrows to the warmth of Eddie’s mouth and the soft press of his hand at the back of Buck’s neck. It’s not desperate or fast. It’s tender, reverent, like they’ve both been waiting a long time to get this right.
When they finally part, Buck’s eyes are wet again, but he’s smiling through it.
Eddie doesn’t say anything. He just rests his forehead against Buck’s, breathing him in. They're still swaying, Eddie the one he's pretty sure that's keeping them upright, stopping them from toppling over into a heap on the floor.
The music shifts again, looping into another slow song, and without thinking, Buck leans back into Eddie’s arms. They're not really dancing anymore, just holding on, moving together in the quiet.
Buck exhales against Eddie’s shoulder. His heart feels too full, too big for his chest. “You were right,” he murmurs.
“About what?”
“I just had to trust.”
Eddie’s arms tighten around him. “Guess you learned something after all.”
Buck laughs softly, muffled against Eddie’s shirt. They keep swaying like that, no real rhythm, no true steps, just the slow rise and fall of their breathing syncing up. The world outside could end and Buck wouldn’t notice.
It’s simple. It’s quiet. It’s everything.
For the first time in a long time, Buck doesn’t need to chase anything. He’s right where he belongs.
And when he finally closes his eyes, swaying in Eddie’s living room, he lets himself believe in it. Every steady heartbeat against his cheek whispering the same truth.
He’s loved.
He’s home.