Chapter Text
The ballroom is too warm for February.
White linen, soft gold lighting, a banner that reads LAFD Charity Bachelor Auction stretched across the stage like this was ever going to be subtle.
Eddie stands near the back with a plastic cup of wine that tastes like it came out of a box. Ravi is beside him, adjusting his tie for the fourth time.
“You look fine,” Eddie tells him.
“I don’t want to look fine,” Ravi mutters. “I want to look unappealing.”
Eddie huffs a quiet laugh.
On stage, the auctioneer gestures grandly toward the wings.
“Let’s start with our newest firefighter— probationary, brave, and already making us proud. Harry Grant!”
Harry walks out like he’s trying to pretend he’s above this. He’s not fooling anyone.
The applause is loud, affectionate.
From the second row, Athena raises her paddle before the starting bid is even announced.
Harry closes his eyes briefly. “Mom.”
Athena’s expression doesn’t shift. “I’m supervising.”
The room dissolves into laughter.
The bidding climbs anyway— a couple of playful donors testing the waters— but Athena stays in it, calm and immovable, until the gavel falls.
“Sold!”
Harry points at her as he steps down. “I’m filing paperwork about this.”
“You can try,” she replies evenly.
The energy is light. Easy. Community.
Ravi goes next.
He looks like he’d rather be back on shift.
"Ravi Panikaar!” the auctioneer calls brightly. “Compassionate, capable, and entirely too modest for his own good!”
Ravi gives a small, helpless wave.
A cluster of older women near the front exchange looks that are far too delighted.
The bids start climbing.
Ravi flushes as the numbers rise, shaking his head like he cannot believe this is happening to him.
Buck calls from the side of the stage, “That’s right, Panikaar. Give them the smolder.”
Ravi absolutely does not smolder.
He survives.
He is sold to a retired school principal who looks thrilled and promises not to make him dance.
Ravi nods gravely, like this is a contract negotiation.
Eddie claps once, amused.
And then—
“And now,” the auctioneer announces, tone sharpening with anticipation, “Firefighter Evan Buckley.”
The room shifts.
Buck doesn’t rush onto the stage. He walks. Loose shoulders. Easy grin. Like he’s stepping into sunlight he’s already claimed.
There are whistles this time.
He bows slightly, exaggerated enough to be funny.
Eddie shakes his head, but there’s warmth in it.
Starting bid at two hundred.
Three paddles go up immediately.
Buck laughs. “You guys are too kind.”
He rolls his sleeves once. The crowd responds.
The bids climb fast.
Three hundred. Four. Five.
Buck plays it just enough— a flex, a wink, a grin over his shoulder— and the energy swells with him.
It’s harmless. It’s charity. It’s Buck in his element.
The momentum slows around six hundred.
A woman near the front hesitates, paddle hovering.
“Six fifty,” she calls.
“Do I hear seven?” the auctioneer prompts.
That’s when Eddie notices him.
Mid-forties, maybe. Brown hair cropped close. Navy suit that fits like it was tailored for him, not bought off a rack. No loosened tie. No leaning forward.
He’s been quiet the entire time.
Watching.
Not the crowd.
Buck.
The woman tries again. “Seven!”
The man lifts his paddle.
“Seven hundred.”
His voice is even. Not loud. It doesn’t need to be.
Buck’s grin flickers for half a second— surprised— then settles again.
The murmur in the room shifts.
“Seven fifty!” someone counters.
The man doesn’t hesitate.
“Eight.”
No smile. No flourish. Just certainty.
The auctioneer counts it down.
Buck glances toward the back of the room.
Toward Eddie.
It’s quick. Instinctive.
Eddie doesn’t move.
“Sold!”
Applause breaks across the hall.
Buck bows again, laughing. “Guess I’m high maintenance.”
The man approaches once Buck steps down. He waits until the crowd thins just enough to make space.
He extends his hand.
“I’m Julian. Mercer. Most people call me Mercer.”
Buck takes it.
"Evan Buckley. Most people call me Buck."
There’s a faint curve at the corner of Julian’s mouth.
“I’m looking forward to our date.”
Not suggestive. Not teasing.
Certain.
Buck tilts his head slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
A small nod. “Thursday work?”
“Yeah. Thursday works.”
“I’ll text you the details.”
And then Julian steps back, giving Buck space as the noise swells around them again.
No claiming.
No posturing.
Just intent.
Eddie watches him cross the room.
Julian.
Not flashy. Not chasing attention.
Just sure of himself.
Eddie could have raised his paddle.
He had the money. He had the opportunity.
He didn’t.
Not because he couldn’t.
Because he wouldn’t.
And as the applause fades and Buck gets swallowed back into the crowd, Eddie feels it settle— quiet and unwelcome.
Someone else hadn’t hesitated.
He had.