Work Text:
Eddie Diaz is fine.
Objectively.
Factually.
Legally.
He’s driving his truck home after shift, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the door, elbow hooked just right like he’s driven this route a thousand times and knows exactly how his body fits into it. The seat is adjusted to the same notch it’s always been. The mirrors are set. The world outside is predictable in the way Eddie prefers—traffic flowing, lights changing when they’re supposed to, nothing demanding more from him than attention.
The sky is doing that end-of-day Los Angeles thing—orange bleeding into pink, pink giving way to something softer, almost gold—and Eddie barely notices because he’s thinking about normal things.
Groceries.
Bills.
Whether Christopher finished his math homework or just said he did.
Normal dad things. Normal man things. Normal, heterosexual, spiritually Catholic, emotionally repressed things.
He runs through the mental list automatically, like a prayer he doesn’t remember learning but knows by heart anyway. Milk. Bread. That cereal Christopher likes even though Eddie swears it’s just sugar shaped like food. He should remind Chris about the history project. He should probably call Abuela this weekend. He definitely needs to fix the fence panel in the backyard that keeps rattling every time the wind picks up.
He’s fine. He’s responsible. He’s got it handled.
The radio hums low in the background, more habit than choice. Eddie doesn’t even know what station it’s on. He turned it on when he got in the truck because silence feels too loud sometimes, because quiet gives his thoughts too much room to stretch. The volume is set just below conscious listening—enough to fill space, not enough to ask anything of him.
His brain is on autopilot, drifting between traffic lights and tomorrow’s to-do list, the familiar rhythm of red-green-yellow guiding him forward. He stops when he’s supposed to. Goes when he’s allowed. Keeps his hands steady. Keeps his distance.
This is a man who has learned how to move through the world without asking too much of it.
He has survived war.
He has survived loss.
He has survived fatherhood—which, frankly, feels like the hardest one most days.
He has survived Los Angeles traffic at rush hour without committing a felony.
He has built a life out of discipline and repetition and doing what needs to be done even when it hurts. He has learned how to put things away. How to keep going. How to live inside the lines.
Eddie is good at that.
He checks the clock on the dashboard and calculates, without thinking, how much time he has before Christopher gets home from school. Enough to start dinner. Not enough to sit down. Eddie likes that window—the in-between space where he can stay moving, stay useful, stay out of his own head.
The light turns red and Eddie brakes smoothly, truck settling into stillness. He drums his fingers once against the steering wheel, then stops, because he doesn’t need a habit to become a tell. He catches his reflection in the rearview mirror—jaw set, eyes tired but focused, a man who looks exactly like someone who has things under control.
He nods to himself, almost imperceptibly.
Fine.
The light changes. He drives on.
He doesn’t know—can’t know—that somewhere in the radio’s low murmur, a song is lining itself up. That a pop beat is about to slip through the cracks of his carefully managed life. That warmth and summer and something dangerously joyfulare waiting just a few seconds ahead.
He doesn’t know that this is the last quiet moment he’s going to get for a while.
He doesn’t know that everything he’s so carefully survived is about to be challenged by something far more dangerous than war or grief or traffic.
He will not survive Zara Larsson.
The song changes without warning.
Not a hard cut. Not a DJ talking. Just a smooth slide into something brighter, warmer—like the station itself has decided Eddie’s evening needs a little drama.
🎶 No nightmares when you can still see the light… 🎶
Eddie barely registers the lyric. Words blur past him all the time; he’s never been a lyrics guy. What he notices is the beat—easy, sunlit, almost smug. It sounds like summer even though it’s technically not. It sounds like bare skin and long evenings and bad decisions you don’t regret until October.
It sounds… happy.
His first thought arrives fully formed and extremely unhelpful.
Oh. This slaps.
Eddie blinks.
“That’s—” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat, like someone might hear him agreeing. “Okay.”
His thumb nudges the volume knob up a single notch.
Just one.
Mistake #1.
The song settles into the cab of the truck like it belongs there. Like it’s always been meant to find him specifically, at this exact moment, with the windows cracked and the sky outside melting into reds and golds. The bass hums low and steady, threading itself through the seat, the steering wheel, his bones.
The feeling creeps in next.
Warm.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Like someone turned the heat on inside his chest, low and steady, radiating outward in a way that makes his shoulders loosen despite himself. His jaw unclenches. His breathing evens out.
Eddie frowns slightly, eyes still on the road.
That’s… new.
🎶 Road’s empty, so you drive a little faster… 🎶
He exhales, something like a laugh tugging at his mouth before he can stop it. The road is empty. The light ahead turns green like it knows the lyric. The truck glides forward without effort, and Eddie realizes—vaguely—that he feels lighter than he did five minutes ago.
The song feels… good.
Too good.
Like it’s doing something without his permission.
Summer-y, his brain supplies, helpful as always.
That’s the word. That’s the feeling. The kind of summer that exists outside of responsibility. Outside of routine. Outside of thinking. The kind that makes you forget what day it is and why that ever mattered.
🎶 Show my tan lines, low-rise, rooftop down… 🎶
Eddie’s grip on the wheel tightens just slightly.
His pulse picks up—not racing, just… aware.
Why does it feel like summer in his chest.
The question doesn’t come with panic. Not yet. It’s curious. Observational. Like noting the weather or realizing the air smells different after it rains.
He shifts in his seat, clears his throat again for no reason, glances down at the dashboard.
Speed’s fine. Fuel’s fine. Everything is fine.
The song continues anyway.
🎶 It’s golden hour all the time… 🎶
Something tugs at the edge of his thoughts—an impression more than an image. Laughter. Bright and familiar. A presence that feels known in a way that makes his stomach dip, sharp and sudden, like missing a step you didn’t see.
Eddie swallows.
Why does this feel like Buck laughing?
The thought lands wrong.
Crooked.
“What,” Eddie says out loud, sharp enough to surprise himself.
He turns the volume down half a notch.
The warmth does not go away.
His chest still feels full. Still bright. Still—alive in a way that makes absolutely no sense for a Tuesday evening commute. The feeling lingers, unapologetic, like it’s not impressed by his attempt at control.
🎶 Layin’ on your chest like this… 🎶
And then—
The image arrives.
Uninvited.
Clear. Immediate. Catastrophic.
Buck. Shirtless.
Not a memory. Not a fantasy he built on purpose. Just—there. Buck’s skin warm from the sun, freckles he’s seen a hundred times suddenly too noticeable, that stupid, easy smile like he knows something Eddie doesn’t.
Eddie’s brain stops.
Not slows. Not stutters.
It just—cuts out, like someone yanked the power cord straight from the wall.
He stares straight ahead, eyes wide, hands locked on the wheel.
“Nope,” he says. Immediately. Firmly. Like that will undo it. Like the universe will hear him and go, oh, sorry, our mistake.
His thumb twists the volume knob again.
Silence crashes into the truck.
The image does not leave.
The warmth does not leave.
His heart thumps once. Twice. Loud enough that he can hear it in his ears.
And then the thought slips in—traitorous and soft and devastating in its simplicity.
Why does that feel… right.
Hard stop.
Full blue screen.
Eddie stares at the road like it might explain itself.
It doesn’t.
The silence in the truck is loud now—too loud. The absence of the song feels wrong, like ripping off a bandage before you were ready. His chest is still warm. His pulse is still doing that unfamiliar, insistent thing. His thoughts are… not lining up in a way he recognizes.
He exhales slowly.
Okay.
Okay, so—
He is thinking about Buck.
That, at least, is undeniable.
Eddie has thought about Buck before. Plenty of times. Buck is his partner. His best friend. The guy who shows up without asking and stays without needing credit. Thinking about Buck is normal. Expected, even.
But this—
This isn’t fond.
It isn’t the soft, familiar affection of someone you trust with your kid. It isn’t the steady comfort of knowing someone has your back.
And it is definitely not platonic.
Eddie’s stomach drops as the word visceral flashes through his mind, unhelpful and accurate.
Visceral means felt. It means body before brain. It means heat and weight and instinct. It means the way Eddie’s hands tightened on the wheel when the image hit, like something in him recognized it before he had a chance to stop it.
“No,” he says again, quieter this time. “No, no.”
He reaches for the volume knob out of sheer reflex and turns it down further.
The song is already off.
The feeling does not leave.
His chest still feels too full. His skin still hums. Buck’s stupid, stupid smile is still there, lingering behind his eyes like it has the nerve to be comfortable.
Eddie swallows hard.
This is fine.
This is fixable.
He turns the volume back up.
Mistake. Worse mistake.
The song floods back into the cab like it’s been waiting.
🎶 It’s the midnight sun— 🎶
“Oh come on,” Eddie snaps, slamming the volume back down again.
The damage is already done.
His thoughts start stacking too fast, sliding into each other without stopping to ask permission.
Oh no.
The words feel small. Inadequate. Like trying to hold back the ocean with a coffee filter.
Oh no no no no.
His hands are sweating now. His breathing goes shallow, then too deep, like his body can’t decide which emergency protocol to use.
This isn’t just a weird thought.
This isn’t just a song doing something stupid to his mood.
This is—
I like men.
The realization lands softly at first. Tentative. Like maybe it’ll bounce.
It doesn’t.
Eddie’s grip on the wheel tightens until his knuckles ache.
“No,” he mutters. “No, I don’t.”
But his brain, traitorous and clear, adds:
I like Buck.
That one hits harder.
That one has weight.
That one rearranges the furniture.
Eddie’s chest tightens painfully as the implications start snapping into place like dominos he didn’t know were set up.
Oh shit I like men.
The thought is louder now. Sharper. Less theoretical.
His heart starts racing for real, panic finally catching up to whatever his subconscious figured out ten minutes ago.
OH SHIT I’M GAY.
The words crash through him like a siren.
Eddie’s foot jerks on the brake without conscious thought.
The truck slows abruptly, tires humming as he pulls off the road and into the first empty parking lot he sees—some closed strip mall, lights half-off, the world mercifully empty of witnesses.
He throws the truck into park.
Just sits there.
Breathing hard.
Hands shaking.
Staring straight ahead like the windshield might crack open and offer guidance.
“This is—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “This is not happening.”
His chest is tight. His palms are damp. His heartbeat is loud enough to feel intrusive.
This isn’t embarrassment.
This isn’t confusion.
This is a medical emergency.
Eddie Diaz has survived war, loss, and single parenthood.
He is currently being taken out by one pop song and a lifetime of repressed realization.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and presses his palms into his eyes.
“Oh my God,” he whispers, horrified. “I’m gay.”
The words don’t explode.
They settle.
And somehow, that’s worse.
Because nothing about this feels temporary.
Nothing about this feels like a mistake.
And Eddie has the sinking, bone-deep certainty that when he starts the truck again, the world is going to look exactly the same—
Except he won’t.
Eddie comes home quiet.
Not the normal end-of-shift quiet. Not the tired, muscle-deep silence he carries when the day has been long and the calls have been worse. This is a different kind of quiet. This is contained. Like he’s holding something in his mouth and doesn’t trust himself not to spit it out by accident.
The front door clicks shut behind him.
The house smells like clean laundry and whatever Christopher microwaved for dinner. Normal. Domestic. Safe.
Eddie drops his keys in the bowl by the door and just… stands there for a second too long.
The song is still stuck in his head.
Not even the whole thing—just flashes of it. Golden hour all the time. The warmth. The feeling. Buck’s stupid smile intruding where it absolutely does not belong.
He clears his throat and walks into the kitchen.
Opens the fridge.
Stares.
Closes it.
Takes three steps away. Turns back. Opens it again.
Still the same food.
Still no answers.
“Dad,” Christopher says from the couch, not looking up from his phone. “You’re doing the thing.”
Eddie freezes with the fridge door halfway open.
“What thing,” he asks, too fast.
Christopher sighs, long-suffering in a way only a fifteen-year-old can manage. “The pacing-like-you’re-on-trial thing.”
Eddie slowly closes the fridge.
“I am not pacing.”
“You’ve walked past me four times,” Christopher replies. “Twice in socks. Once without.”
Eddie exhales through his nose and rubs a hand over his face. “I’m just… thinking.”
Christopher finally looks up.
Clocks him immediately.
The raised eyebrow. The slight head tilt. The look that says something is wrong and you are being dramatic about it.
“Oh,” Christopher says. “This is a big one.”
Eddie bristles. “It is not a big one.”
“Uh-huh,” Christopher replies, scrolling again. “Is it a work thing or a feelings thing.”
Eddie opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Sinks down into the kitchen chair like his spine has given up on him.
“…feelings,” he admits.
Christopher hums. “Called it.”
Eddie presses his palms flat against the table and stares at the wood grain like it’s a witness who might lie for him.
Okay.
Fine.
If this is happening, he’s going to be methodical about it.
If his brain is going to betray him, he’s at least going to cross-examine it properly.
Court is now in session, he thinks grimly.
Exhibit A: Evidence Against Being Gay.
He’s dated women.
Plural.
He was married. To a woman. A real one. With opinions and a name and a child they made together.
He has Catholic guilt so deeply ingrained it could be classified as a secondary organ.
And—most compellingly—he has a son.
Christopher, as if summoned by the thought, looks up again. “You’re frowning like that means something bad.”
“It doesn’t,” Eddie says quickly. “I’m just—thinking through things.”
“About what.”
Eddie swallows.
“Hypotheticals.”
Christopher squints. “That’s never good.”
Eddie ignores him and continues the internal proceedings.
Exhibit B: Evidence For Being Gay.
Buck exists.
Buck smiles.
Buck wears cardigans that should not be allowed under OSHA regulations and somehow makes them look unfair.
Buck breathes.
Buck laughs, loud and unguarded, like the world has never given him a reason not to.
Buck is… Buck.
Eddie’s chest tightens.
This is not a fair trial.
This is a massacre.
His brain barrels forward anyway, merciless.
I have dated women.
Yes.
So many women.
…okay, not so many.
Well like two and a half if you count Kim.
Eddie winces.
Have I emotionally ruined all the women in Los Angeles.
The thought hits hard enough that he actually groans.
“Oh no,” he mutters, leaning back in the chair. “Oh no, that’s bad.”
Christopher looks up again, interest piqued. “What’s bad.”
“I think,” Eddie says slowly, carefully, like he’s handling something volatile, “that I may have made some mistakes.”
Christopher studies him for a long second.
Then he says, completely casual, “You mean the women thing?”
Eddie freezes.
Every muscle locks.
The house goes very, very quiet.
“…what,” Eddie says faintly.
Christopher shrugs. “You date them, you seem stressed, you break up, and then you immediately go hang out with Evan Buckley.”
Eddie’s soul leaves his body.
Christopher continues, unbothered. “I kind of assumed.”
“You—” Eddie clears his throat. “You assumed what.”
“That you were into him,” Christopher says, like he’s explaining the plot of a show Eddie missed an episode of. “Or guys. Or both. I don’t know. I didn’t really label it.”
Eddie stares at his son.
His fifteen-year-old son.
Who is looking at him with mild concern and zero surprise.
“You… knew?” Eddie asks.
Christopher tilts his head. “Dad, you look at Buck like he hung the moon and personally invented joy.”
“That is not—”
“You once bought a different cereal because Buck said he liked it,” Christopher adds.
Eddie opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Christopher softens then, just a little. “It’s okay,” he says. “You’re allowed to figure stuff out late.”
Eddie slumps back in the chair, defeated.
“I think Zara Larsson did this to me,” he mutters.
Christopher blinks. “The pop singer?”
“Yes.”
“…yeah, that tracks.”
Eddie drags a hand down his face.
The trial is adjourned.
Verdict delivered.
And his own kid has just handed it down without even standing up.
Eddie Diaz does not panic.
He adjusts.
Badly.
It starts small.
Too small to be dignified.
“Did you know,” Eddie says suddenly, leaning against the kitchen counter like this is a normal conversation starter, “that Margot Robbie is… very talented.”
Christopher looks up from his phone. Blinks once. “In what way.”
“Acting,” Eddie says quickly. “And—uh—being… attractive.”
Silence.
Christopher sets his phone down slowly. “Okay.”
Eddie nods, encouraged by the fact that he hasn’t been arrested yet. “Just saying. Women. Great. Really… great.”
Christopher’s mouth twitches. “Are they.”
“Yes,” Eddie replies, too loud. “Historically.”
He moves on before Christopher can say anything else.
Overcorrection Phase Two.
Eddie turns the radio on.
Immediately turns it off.
Immediately turns it back on to a different station.
Rock. Loud. Aggressive. Drums. Shouting.
This should fix it.
It does not.
Golden hour all the time is still playing in his head like a threat.
He clears his throat. “You know, I’ve been thinking about… dating again.”
Christopher raises an eyebrow. “Have you.”
“Yes,” Eddie lies. “Very seriously.”
“Mm.”
“I mean, not seriously,” Eddie corrects. “Casually. Casually dating women.”
“Dad,” Christopher says gently, “you’re sweating.”
Eddie wipes his palms on his jeans. “I’m not.”
“You just said ‘women’ like it was a biology term.”
Eddie straightens. “I just think it’s important for you to see… examples. Of, uh. Normal adult relationships.”
Christopher tilts his head. “Like you and Buck?”
The air leaves Eddie’s lungs.
“That’s not—” He stops. Reboots. “That’s a friendship.”
Christopher studies him, thoughtful. Not judgmental. Just observing.
“You don’t talk about anyone else the way you talk about him,” Christopher says. “You don’t listen the way you listen to him.”
Eddie opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Christopher continues, softer now, like he’s explaining something obvious. “When you’re upset, you don’t go quiet. You go to Buck.”
Eddie’s throat tightens.
“I thought,” Christopher says, carefully, “that you knew.”
The silence that follows is brutal.
Not awkward. Not tense.
Just… heavy.
Eddie sinks back into the chair, shoulders slumping like he’s lost a fight he didn’t know he was in. “I didn’t,” he admits.
Christopher watches him for a second longer, then nods, like that settles something.
“Okay,” he says. “Well. Now you do.”
Eddie exhales shakily. “You’re not—”
“Surprised?” Christopher finishes. “No.”
“Mad?”
“No.”
“Scarred for life?”
Christopher snorts. “Dad, I go to public school.”
That gets a weak laugh out of Eddie.
Christopher picks his phone back up but pauses, glancing at him again. “For what it’s worth,” he adds, “Buck’s like my second dad. And he makes you less… tight.”
Eddie blinks. “Less what.”
“Less like you’re holding your breath all the time,” Christopher says, already scrolling again. “It’s noticeable.”
Eddie sits there, heart pounding, brain still spinning.
Zara Larsson remains a menace.
His son has dismantled him with kindness.
And the worst part?
Christopher isn’t smug about it.
He’s just… right.
Eddie Diaz has had forty-eight hours to think.
This feels important to note.
Forty-eight hours since the radio incident. Since the truck. Since the very real, very illegal thought that his life might actually make more sense if he stopped lying to himself.
Forty-eight hours of lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything.
Forty-eight hours of Christopher giving him looks that said I am not touching this until you’re ready, but I could if I wanted to.
Forty-eight hours of trying — and failing — not to think about Buck.
Which is how Eddie ends up standing in the locker room at 118 at the start of shift, already tired.
Buck is supposed to be here any second.
Eddie knows this because Buck always starts shift with him. They sync up without ever having said it out loud — same arrival time, same routine, same unspoken understanding that whatever the day throws at them, they’ll walk into it side by side.
Eddie has never questioned this.
He is questioning everything now.
He focuses on the mundane instead.
The clink of his locker door.
The weight of his turnout pants in his hands.
The familiar smell of the station — coffee, metal, something faintly burnt.
Normal. This is normal. He can do normal.
“Morning.”
Buck’s voice comes from behind him, close enough that Eddie feels it before he processes it.
His hands still.
Just for half a second.
Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough that Eddie notices.
He turns slowly.
Buck is right there.
Same smile. Same easy warmth. Same stupid, soft cardigan — gray this time, sleeves pushed up like he doesn’t know what it does to people. His hair is still a little messy, like he didn’t quite bother taming it this morning. He looks rested. Happy.
Unaffected.
Eddie’s brain supplies, unhelpfully: This is the man who ruined your life via pop radio.
“Oh,” Eddie says, eloquent as ever. “Hey.”
Buck grins wider. “You beat me here. Everything okay?”
No, Eddie thinks immediately.
“Yes,” Eddie says out loud, just as fast.
Buck watches him for a beat — not suspicious, just attentive in that way Buck always is. “You sure? You look… different.”
Eddie’s stomach drops.
“Different how,” he asks, too quickly.
Buck shrugs, leaning back against the locker next to him, casual and devastating. “Dunno. Quieter, maybe. Not in a bad way. Just—” He tilts his head. “You good, Eds?”
Eddie nods. Again too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Buck hums, accepting that easily, because Buck trusts him. “Same. These two days off flew by.”
Eddie swallows.
Two days.
He thinks about what his two days looked like — pacing the kitchen, standing in the doorway of Christopher’s room like he might say something and never doing it, replaying Buck’s laugh in his head like a loop he couldn’t shut off.
He thinks about how Buck probably spent those same two days just… being Buck. Living. Smiling. Oblivious.
“That’s—” Eddie clears his throat. “Yeah. They did.”
Buck bumps his shoulder lightly, familiar, automatic.
Eddie nearly loses his mind.
It’s such a small thing. Something that has happened countless times before. But now Eddie feels it everywhere — the solid warmth of Buck’s arm, the ease of the contact, the way his body wants to lean back into it like it always has.
Oh my god, he thinks, dizzy. I have always leaned into this.
Buck steps away to open his locker, completely unaware that Eddie is having a silent crisis at his side.
“You talk to Chris?” Buck asks casually.
Eddie stiffens. “Uh. Yeah.”
“He texted me yesterday,” Buck continues, pulling on his shirt. “Said you were being weird but ‘in a dad way, not a scary way.’”
Eddie closes his eyes briefly. “That tracks.”
Buck laughs, soft and fond. “He’s a good kid.”
Eddie looks at him.
Really looks.
At the way Buck talks about Christopher like he belongs in the conversation. Like he’s always belonged. Like being part of Eddie’s family was never something Buck questioned — he just was.
Second dad, Christopher had said.
Eddie’s chest tightens.
Buck glances over again. “Seriously though. You okay?”
Eddie meets his eyes.
There’s so much he could say. Everything he can’t say. The weight of two days of knowing something that won’t stay contained forever.
“I’m fine,” he says carefully. “Just… thinking.”
Buck smiles at him — gentle, open, fond. “Yeah. You do that.”
And then, like the universe is actively mocking him, Buck reaches out and adjusts the strap on Eddie’s turnout gear, fingers brushing his chest in a way that is practical and affectionate and absolutely fatal.
“There,” Buck says. “All set.”
Eddie’s brain short-circuits.
“Oh my god,” he thinks again, helpless now. This explains everything.
The way he’s always watched Buck move.
The way Buck feels like home without ever trying.
The way Eddie’s life has quietly, consistently oriented itself around him.
Buck steps back, satisfied, and grabs his helmet.
“Ready?” he asks.
Eddie nods, heart pounding, body buzzing, entire sense of self hanging on by a thread.
“Yeah,” he says. “Ready.”
And as they walk toward the bay together — side by side, like they always have — Eddie understands something with terrifying clarity:
Nothing has changed.
Except him.
And Buck has no idea.
Eddie Diaz makes a decision.
This decision is simple, clear, and absolutely doomed.
He is going to act normal.
He does not announce this decision. He does not tell anyone. He simply locks it into place in his brain like a mission objective and proceeds to fail it immediately.
It starts small.
He drops a wrench.
Not because his grip slips — Eddie has excellent grip strength — but because Buck laughs from across the bay and Eddie’s brain short-circuits for half a second too long.
The wrench hits the concrete with a loud clang.
Eddie freezes.
No one says anything. A beat passes.
Chim looks over. “You good, man?”
“Yes,” Eddie says instantly, too loud. “Fine.”
He bends to pick up the wrench and knocks it against his boot.
Buck tilts his head. “You sure?”
“Yes,” Eddie repeats. “Great.”
This is already not going well.
He moves on to the engine, forcing his attention onto the familiar motions — check the hoses, inventory the compartments, don’t think about Buck’s hands, don’t think about Buck’s voice, don’t think about Buck leaning over the railing five minutes ago like some kind of problem.
Eddie reaches for a piece of equipment he has handled a thousand times.
Misses it completely.
Hen watches him do it.
Slowly.
Silently.
With interest.
“You okay there, Diaz?” she asks.
“Yes,” Eddie says again. “Just— distracted.”
By men, his brain supplies.
“Nope,” Eddie mutters under his breath, shaking his head like he can physically dislodge the thought.
Hen’s eyebrow ticks up.
Buck wanders closer, curiosity written all over his face. “You’re acting weird today.”
“I am not,” Eddie says, immediately defensive. “I’m acting—” He gestures vaguely. “Normal.”
Chim snorts. “Buddy, that was your first mistake.”
Eddie glares at him. “I am perfectly fine.”
Buck studies him, eyes warm but sharp in that way that says he’s clocking something without knowing what to call it yet. “You’ve said that like six times.”
“That’s because I am,” Eddie insists.
He picks up a rag. Drops it.
Bends down too fast. Knocks his elbow into the side of the truck.
Hisses under his breath.
Buck reaches out instinctively, a hand hovering near Eddie’s arm like he’s ready to steady him if needed. “Hey—”
Eddie jerks back like he’s been shocked.
“I’m good,” he blurts.
Buck freezes.
Everyone freezes.
The bay goes quiet in that way that means Eddie has done something noticeable.
Buck’s brows knit together. “Okay,” he says slowly. “You don’t usually flinch when I do that.”
Eddie’s mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
His brain scrambles, desperate for a cover. Something straight. Something convincing. Something normal.
He panics.
“I just—” Eddie starts, then barrels forward without brakes. “I’m just in a really good mood today.”
Buck smiles, a little relieved. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes,” Eddie says. “Great mood. Love—” He gestures vaguely at the open bay, the sun outside, existence in general. “The day.”
He nods to himself, like that seals it.
Then his mouth keeps going.
“Love men—”
Dead silence.
Eddie’s soul leaves his body.
“I mean—” He coughs, hard, voice cracking. “THE DAY. Love the day. Big fan of the day. The weather. Sun. Normal stuff.”
Chim chokes on his coffee.
Hen turns fully toward him now, eyes bright with something dangerously close to delight.
Buck stares.
Not offended. Not upset.
Just… blinking.
“…you good, Eds?” Buck asks carefully.
Eddie nods so fast it’s a miracle his neck survives. “YEP.”
He grabs the nearest piece of equipment — it does not matter what it is — and pretends to be extremely busy with it.
No one believes him.
Hen crosses her arms. “You want to maybe start that sentence again?”
“Nope,” Eddie says. “Absolutely not.”
Chim grins. “Because I gotta tell you, that one sounded loaded.”
“It wasn’t,” Eddie lies, sweating. “It was just a word mix-up.”
Buck’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “You sure?”
“Yes,” Eddie says. “Words are… tricky.”
Buck hums. “Didn’t know that was an issue for you.”
Eddie glares at him, immediately regrets it, then looks anywhere else.
This is unbearable.
Every movement feels exaggerated. Every glance feels like it lasts too long. Every time Buck laughs — easy and warm and completely unbothered — Eddie feels it in his chest like a physical thing.
Hen finally sighs, shaking her head. “Okay,” she says. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know you’re one more dropped tool away from being benched for a wellness check.”
Eddie straightens. “I’m fine.”
Buck smiles at him again, soft this time. “You don’t have to be, you know.”
Eddie looks at him.
Really looks.
And thinks, Oh. I am so screwed.
“Yeah,” Eddie says quietly. “I know.”
Buck’s smile lingers, curious now. “You wanna talk about it later?”
Eddie swallows.
“Maybe,” he says. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Buck nods, accepting that without pressure, and steps back to finish his checks like nothing earth-shattering just happened.
Eddie stands there for a second longer, heart racing, palms damp, dignity in absolute shambles.
So much for acting normal.
If this is what it feels like to know and not say it, Eddie is going to lose his mind before lunch.
Eddie should have known better than to think he could get away with that.
He makes it exactly twelve minutes after his public verbal faceplant before Hen corners him.
Not aggressively. Not dramatically. Just… strategically.
She waits until Buck is distracted on the other side of the bay, laughing with Ravi about something inconsequential. Then she steps into Eddie’s space, calm as a surgeon, and says, “So.”
Eddie stiffens. “So what.”
Hen smiles. It’s not kind.
“So,” she repeats, folding her arms, “you wanna tell me what that was.”
“That,” Eddie says, stalling for time, “was nothing.”
“Mhm.”
Chim appears out of nowhere, coffee in hand, already grinning. “Oh, it was something.”
Eddie exhales sharply through his nose. “I misspoke.”
Chim sips his coffee. “You misspoke lovingly.”
Hen tilts her head. “You don’t usually declare your love for men during routine equipment checks.”
“I didn’t declare anything,” Eddie says, defensive. “It was a slip.”
“A Freudian one,” Chim adds helpfully.
Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we not.”
Hen’s gaze flicks briefly to Buck — still oblivious, still glowing — and then back to Eddie. “How long.”
Eddie freezes.
“…what.”
Hen doesn’t blink. “How long have you known.”
Eddie opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Tries again.
“…since,” he says slowly, miserably, “the radio.”
Chim chokes. “The radio.”
“Yes,” Eddie snaps. “The radio.”
Hen’s eyebrows shoot up. “As in—”
“As in Zara Larsson,” Eddie mutters.
There is a beat.
Then Chim bursts out laughing, nearly spilling his coffee. “It took a Zara Larsson song?”
“I didn’t choose this,” Eddie says desperately. “It just—happened.”
Hen is smiling now. Big. Satisfied. Like she’s just won a bet she placed years ago.
“Oh my god,” Chim says, wiping his mouth. “I owe Karen twenty bucks.”
Eddie looks at him, horrified. “This was a bet?”
Hen waves a hand. “Less a bet, more a timeline prediction.”
Eddie’s voice cracks. “You knew?”
Hen sighs, fond and maddening. “Eddie. Baby.”
She reaches into her phone, taps twice, and turns the screen toward him.
It’s Spotify.
The playlist title reads, in bold, merciless text:
Eddie Diaz, Gay Awakening
Eddie stares.
“That—” he croaks. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s extremely funny,” Chim says. “How many songs?”
Hen scrolls.
Eddie watches his dignity evaporate in real time.
“…Hen,” he says faintly. “That’s a lot of songs.”
“I’ve been adding to it since the earthquake,” she says cheerfully.
Eddie makes a strangled sound and leans back against the engine like his legs might give out.
“I thought I was subtle,” he whispers.
Chim laughs again. “Buddy, you stared at Buck like he personally invented oxygen.”
“I do not—”
“You once asked him if he was ‘doing okay’ because he sighed,” Chim continues. “Once. One sigh.”
Hen nods. “You rearranged your entire schedule to drive him to physical therapy.”
“He didn’t like driving alone,” Eddie protests weakly.
“You made him lunches,” Hen says.
“He forgets to eat!”
“You learned his coffee order,” Chim adds.
“That’s just being polite!”
A shadow falls over them.
“Eddie.”
Bobby’s voice is calm. Gentle. Devastating.
Eddie turns slowly.
Bobby stands there with his hands in his pockets, expression soft in that way that means he’s about to say something that will permanently alter Eddie’s emotional state.
“Yes, Cap.”
Bobby studies him for a moment. Really studies him.
Then he smiles.
“Son,” Bobby says quietly, “I’ve known since you looked at Buck like he hung the moon.”
Eddie’s brain fully shuts down.
He stares at Bobby, mouth opening and closing like he’s buffering.
“I—” Eddie starts. “You— I—”
Bobby pats his shoulder, warm and grounding. “You don’t have to explain. And you’re not in trouble.”
Chim snorts. “Unless you count emotional repression as a crime.”
Eddie drags a hand down his face. “Everyone knew.”
Hen squeezes his arm. “Everyone who matters.”
Eddie glances across the bay again.
Buck is laughing. Radiant. Completely unaware that Eddie Diaz’s entire identity has collapsed in public.
“Oh my god,” Eddie murmurs. “He’s gonna hate me.”
Hen’s expression softens. “He’s not.”
Chim nods. “If anything, he’s been waiting.”
Eddie’s stomach flips. “You don’t know that.”
Bobby meets his eyes. “We do.”
Eddie exhales, long and shaky, the weight of it finally settling into something real.
“I think I’m gay,” he says quietly.
Hen smiles. “Yeah.”
Chim grins. “Yeah.”
Eddie looks between them, betrayed. “You’re supposed to reassure me!”
“That is reassurance,” Hen says. “Welcome to the club.”
Eddie straightens slowly, heart still racing, panic still buzzing — but underneath it, something else. Something lighter.
“…okay,” he says. “Okay.”
Hen’s eyes flick past him. “You wanna tell him now, or do you need a minute?”
Eddie swallows.
Across the bay, Buck looks over, catches Eddie staring, and smiles.
Warm. Open. Like he always does.
Eddie’s knees nearly give out.
“…I’m gonna need a minute,” he admits.
Bobby nods. “Take all the time you need.”
Chim lifts his coffee in a mock toast. “Try not to declare your love for men again before lunch.”
Eddie groans. “I hate all of you.”
Hen laughs. “No, you don’t.”
And she’s right.
Because for the first time since the radio ruined his life, Eddie doesn’t feel quite so alone in it.
Eddie does not tell Buck immediately.
This is mostly because Eddie Diaz, newly gay (apparently), needs at least one full mental rehearsal before he does something that could permanently alter his life, his job, and his ability to make eye contact ever again.
Unfortunately, life does not respect rehearsal schedules.
Buck finds him first.
Eddie is in the locker room, pretending very hard to be interested in his boots. He has been tying the same lace for a suspicious amount of time. He is aware of this. He cannot stop.
“Hey,” Buck says easily, like Eddie’s world isn’t balanced on a knife’s edge. “You disappear or something?”
Eddie straightens so fast he nearly hits his head on the locker. “No.”
Buck blinks. “Okay.”
“I mean— yes. I mean— I was just—” Eddie gestures vaguely at the lockers, the floor, existence. “Doing stuff.”
Buck smiles, soft and familiar, and leans against the open locker across from him. He looks relaxed. Comfortable. Homein a way that makes Eddie’s chest ache.
“You good, Eds?” Buck asks.
There it is again.
That look. That tone. Concern without pressure. Like Buck is always checking in, always leaving space.
Eddie’s brain short-circuits.
This was not how he planned it.
He had a whole script.
It did not involve Buck standing this close, sleeves rolled up, forearms unfairly visible, looking at him like that.
Eddie swallows.
“Yeah,” he says automatically. “Totally.”
Buck tilts his head. “You sure?”
Eddie laughs. It comes out wrong. Too high. Too fast. “Yep. Super good. Great, actually.”
Buck studies him for a second longer than necessary.
“…you’re doing the thing,” Buck says gently.
Eddie freezes. “What thing.”
“The thing where you’re calm,” Buck says, smiling a little, “but also vibrating.”
Eddie exhales. Of course Buck notices. Of course he does.
He rubs a hand over his face. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I— I need to tell you something.”
Buck straightens immediately. No teasing now. Just Buck. Steady. Present. “Alright.”
Eddie’s heart starts pounding so hard he can hear it.
This is it.
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Tries again.
“So,” Eddie says, already sweating. “Hypothetically.”
Buck’s eyebrows lift. “…okay?”
“If,” Eddie continues, words tumbling out faster now, “a person were— say— hypothetically gay.”
Buck nods slowly. Patient. Unfazed. “Cool.”
Eddie stares at him. “…cool?”
“Yeah,” Buck says. “Hypothetical people are allowed to be gay.”
Eddie huffs out a breath that might have been a laugh. “Right. Right. So. Hypothetically.”
“Uh-huh.”
“If that hypothetical person,” Eddie says, voice dropping, “was also hypothetically in love with you.”
There it is.
Silence fills the locker room.
Not bad silence.
Just… quiet.
Buck’s expression doesn’t change much at first. His eyes soften. Something warm flickers there—recognition, maybe. Relief.
“Oh,” Buck says.
Eddie’s stomach drops. “Oh.”
Buck smiles. Small. Careful. “Yeah.”
Eddie’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— I didn’t plan this, it was a radio thing, and everyone already knew apparently, which feels illegal, and I swear I wasn’t lying to you, I just—”
“Eddie,” Buck says gently.
Eddie stops.
Buck takes a step closer. Not crowding. Just enough to be real. “You’re okay.”
Eddie laughs weakly. “You don’t look surprised.”
Buck shrugs, a little sheepish now. “I mean. I didn’t think it’d be a Zara Larsson situation.”
Eddie groans. “Please don’t.”
“But,” Buck continues softly, “I’ve kinda been waiting.”
Eddie looks at him. Really looks.
“…waiting,” he echoes.
Buck nods. “Yeah.”
“For what.”
“For you,” Buck says simply. “To catch up.”
Something in Eddie’s chest cracks open.
“You knew?” Eddie asks.
Buck smiles, fond and unbearably kind. “I hoped.”
Eddie’s breath stutters. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Buck reaches out, hesitates just a second, then rests his hand lightly against Eddie’s arm. Warm. Solid. Familiar. “That’s okay,” he says. “We can be bad at it together.”
Eddie swallows hard. “Christopher is gonna be insufferable about this.”
Buck laughs. “Oh, I’m terrified.”
Eddie lets out a shaky breath, then another. The panic eases, just a little, replaced by something bright and steady and terrifying in its own way.
“…can I,” Eddie starts, then stops. “Is it okay if I—”
Buck leans in just enough to close the distance. “Yeah,” he says softly. “It is.”
Eddie kisses him.
It’s not dramatic. Not fireworks. Just warm and easy and right, like the song that started all of this—like summer showing up when you weren’t looking.
Eddie pulls back first, breathless and stunned and smiling like an idiot.
“Wow,” he says again, because his vocabulary has temporarily left the building.
Buck grins, warm and bright and impossibly Buck. “Yeah.”
Eddie shakes his head, half-laughing. “I came out to myself because of a pop song.”
Buck’s smile widens. “You came out to me because of a pop song.”
“That makes it worse.”
“I think it makes it iconic.”
Eddie snorts despite himself.
From somewhere down the hall, Chim’s voice carries: “Hey! Are you guys done being emotionally vulnerable or do we need to schedule a block?”
Eddie groans. Buck laughs.
“Yeah,” Buck calls back easily. “We’re good.”
He looks at Eddie again, softer now. “You good?”
Eddie exhales. Deep. Real. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”
Buck bumps his shoulder lightly. “Cool.”
They walk back out together, side by side, like the world hasn’t tilted permanently on its axis.
The house is quiet in the way it only ever is after a long day—not empty, just settled.
Shoes are kicked off by the door. Eddie’s jacket is slung over the back of a chair like he forgot it existed halfway through the motion. The lights are low, warm pools instead of overhead glare. Buck is on the couch, legs stretched out, socked feet crossed at the ankles, flipping idly through channels without actually watching anything.
He looks… right.
That realization still lands a little sideways in Eddie’s chest, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. It just exists, warm and steady, like something that’s been waiting patiently to be acknowledged.
Eddie comes out of the kitchen with two beers, handing one to Buck without thinking.
“Thanks,” Buck says easily.
Their fingers brush.
Eddie’s brain threatens to reboot again, but he survives this time. Growth.
He drops onto the couch beside Buck, close enough that their shoulders touch. Neither of them moves away. Buck doesn’t comment on it. Eddie doesn’t either. It’s not a decision—it’s gravity.
The TV murmurs quietly. Some music channel Eddie isn’t paying attention to. Buck hums along absently to the song, off-key, like he always does.
And then—
🎶 No nightmares when you can still see the light… 🎶
Eddie freezes.
Buck clocks it immediately. “Too soon?”
Eddie listens to his body. Checks the way his chest feels—open, a little fluttery, but not panicked.
“…No,” he says finally. “I think it’s okay.”
Buck smiles, soft and careful. “Okay.”
Neither of them changes the channel.
The song fills the room gently this time, not explosive, not catastrophic. Just warm. Familiar now. Like it’s already woven itself into the shape of this moment.
Buck leans back into the couch cushions, glancing sideways at Eddie. “You know,” he says lightly, “I’m kind of honored.”
Eddie snorts. “That a pop song ruined my life?”
“That I ruined your life,” Buck corrects, grinning.
Eddie shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “You didn’t ruin it.”
Buck’s expression shifts—subtle, fond. “Yeah?”
Eddie meets his gaze. “You just… explained it.”
Something settles between them at that.
They sit like that for a while, shoulders pressed together, listening to the song drift through the room like summer air.
Then footsteps.
Eddie hears them before he sees anything and barely has time to brace.
Christopher appears in the hallway, phone in hand, hair still damp from his shower. He stops mid-step the second he takes in the scene.
Buck. On the couch.
Eddie. Too close.
The vibe.
Christopher squints.
“Oh.”
Eddie closes his eyes. “Please don’t.”
Christopher blinks once. Twice.
Then he exhales—long-suffering, deeply unimpressed.
“Wow,” he says. “That took you long enough.”
Buck bursts out laughing.
Eddie groans and drops his head back against the couch. “You are grounded.”
Christopher shrugs, already walking toward the kitchen. “For what. Being right.”
Buck watches him go, still smiling. “He’s… terrifying.”
“Yeah,” Eddie says fondly. “He gets that from me.”
Christopher returns with a glass of juice, leans against the counter, and eyes them again. “So,” he says casually, like he’s asking about dinner plans. “Are you guys done pretending or…?”
Buck chokes on a laugh.
Eddie opens his eyes. “We were not pretending.”
Christopher raises an eyebrow. “Dad. You once tried to convince me you liked kale.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?”
Buck presses his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.
Christopher glances at him then, expression softening just a fraction. “You staying over?”
Buck looks at Eddie—not asking, not assuming. Just checking.
Eddie nods. “Yeah. If that’s okay.”
Christopher nods back immediately. “Good.”
He takes a sip of his juice. “Buck makes you less… tight.”
Buck’s smile flickers into something gentler.
Eddie swallows. “…I know.”
Christopher turns to head back down the hall, already typing furiously on his phone. Over his shoulder, he adds, “Also Hen owes me ten bucks.”
Buck laughs. “He knew?”
Christopher doesn’t even turn around. “Everyone knew.”
The song swells softly again.
Eddie exhales, deep and real, and leans back into the couch. Buck shifts closer without thinking, knee brushing Eddie’s.
The night stretches out in front of them—easy, warm, unafraid.
Eddie doesn’t turn the tv off.
And for the first time, he doesn’t feel like he has to.