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Buck didn’t mean for it to become a mission.
It started as a joke, really — one late-night rabbit hole of cooking videos, one impulsive trip to the farmer’s market, one comment from Maddie about how everyone always used the same five fruits for dessert. Apples. Strawberries. Lemons. Blueberries. Bananas. Safe choices. Predictable. Comfortable.
Buck had stared at the produce stand and thought, Well, that’s boring.
So he bought plums.
Deep purple ones. Red ones. Yellow ones. Soft-skinned, firm-skinned, tart ones, sweet ones. He went home with a bag so full it tore on the walk to the car, juice staining his hands and shirt, sticky and sweet and bright. He’d laughed the whole drive home, windows down, radio too loud, already thinking about what he could make with them.
It turned into a thing after that.
Plum galettes. Plum muffins. Plum turnovers. Plum crumble bars. Plum cobbler that collapsed in the middle because he misjudged the sugar ratio and still brought it in anyway because it tasted good even if it looked like a disaster. He started experimenting with spices, with textures, with crusts and glazes and syrups. He watched videos. Read blogs. Took notes like he was studying for a test.
And every single time, without fail, Eddie ate it.
Not just polite bites. Not small, cautious tastes. Eddie took full servings. Seconds, sometimes. Leaned back in his chair at the station table and said things like, “Damn, Buck, this one’s actually really good,” or “Okay, I don’t know what you did differently this time, but this one’s my favorite.”
He smiled when he said it. Soft, warm, genuine.
And Buck believed him.
Because Eddie didn’t fake things. Eddie didn’t lie for no reason. Eddie was honest to the point of blunt sometimes, the kind of person who would absolutely tell you if something tasted bad, if your cooking sucked, if you’d messed up a recipe. Buck trusted that. Trusted him.
So he kept baking.
Kept bringing containers into the station. Kept lighting up when Eddie reached for them first. Kept noticing the way Eddie always sat next to him when dessert came out, the way he’d nudge Buck’s arm and murmur quiet praise that felt too intimate to be casual but too subtle to be anything else.
Buck told himself it was nothing.
He told himself it was normal to feel warm in his chest when Eddie smiled at him like that. Normal to feel proud in a way that had nothing to do with baking and everything to do with making Eddie happy. Normal to feel a little stupidly hopeful when Eddie asked what he was making next.
Normal to want to keep doing whatever caused that look to cross Eddie’s face.
So when Bobby announced the barbecue, Buck didn’t hesitate.
He made a plum dessert,his best one yet. Layers of roasted plums and vanilla cream and honey glaze, crisp pastry on top, a recipe he’d tested twice because he wanted it perfect. He plated it carefully, arranged it beautifully, carried it to Bobby’s house like it was something fragile and important.
Which, stupidly, it was.
The backyard was full when they arrived. Laughter, music, smoke from the grill, the 118 scattered across the space like a second family. Bobby was manning the barbecue. Athena was holding court at the table. Chim and Hen were arguing about something loud and ridiculous. Maddie had Jee tucked against her shoulder. Christopher and Denny was already stealing chips.
Eddie was there.
Buck’s attention always found him first, like a reflex. Eddie in a blue t-shirt, sleeves rolled up, laugh easy and relaxed, one hand resting on Chris’s shoulder. He looked comfortable. Happy. Light.
Buck felt that familiar warmth settle in his chest.
When dessert came out, Buck served it himself.
He cut generous slices. Plated them carefully. Handed them out with a grin that felt embarrassingly proud. Everyone reacted the same way they always did — surprised, impressed, appreciative. Compliments flew easily.
Then Buck reached Eddie.
And without thinking, he gave him the biggest serving.
Eddie blinked, then smiled. “Damn, Buck,” he laughed softly. “Trying to put me in a food coma?”
Buck shrugged, grinning. “You’re my best taste tester.”
Eddie’s smile softened.
Christopher, already halfway through his slice, looked up, squinted at Eddie, then at the dessert, then at Buck.
And laughed. Just a kid’s honest, confused amusement.
“Buck,” Chris said easily, “you know dad hates plums, right?”
The world didn’t stop.
But something in Buck did.
The table went quiet in that subtle, uncomfortable way — not silence, but stillness. The kind that feels heavy and sudden and wrong. Eddie froze for half a second, color rising up his neck, his ears, his cheeks.
Buck stared at him.
Eddie laughed too quickly. Too forced. “Okay, wow, rude,” he said, trying to make it a joke, pushing back from the table. “I don’t hate them, I just— I mean, it’s fine—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He set his fork down. Smiled too wide. Avoided Buck’s eyes.
“I’m gonna grab a drink,” Eddie said lightly, already turning away. “Be right back.”
And then he was gone.
Buck stood there holding an empty serving spoon, his chest tight, his stomach dropping.
Eddie hates plums.
Weeks of desserts. Weeks of praise. Weeks of Eddie eating every bite, every serving, every experiment.
Not because he liked them.
Because Buck did.
The realization hit like a physical thing.
Hard. Sudden. Overwhelming.
And when Buck finally, finally understood, he doesn’t stay at the table.
He barely registers the noise coming back to life around him, the conversations resuming, the clink of plates and laughter trying to smooth over the awkward moment. His mind is still stuck on Christopher’s voice, on that simple sentence that cracked something open in his chest.
You know dad hates plums, right?
He sets the spoon down, hands slightly unsteady, and follows the direction Eddie went without thinking about it. Through the house, past the living room, past the hallway, toward the kitchen.
He finds him there.
Eddie is standing by the counter, hands braced against the edge, head slightly bowed. He looks smaller in here somehow, more vulnerable without the noise of the backyard, without the easy smiles and casual laughter. The confident mask is gone, replaced with something quiet and unsure.
Buck stops just inside the doorway.
For a second, he doesn’t know what to say.
Then it all spills out of him anyway.
“Is it true?”
Eddie’s shoulders tense. He doesn’t turn around immediately.
“Buck—”
“Do you really hate it?” Buck asks softly.
Silence.
Then Eddie exhales and turns.
His expression is embarrassed, yes — cheeks flushed, eyes a little too bright — but there’s something else there too. Something tender. Something exposed.
“Yeah,” Eddie admits quietly. “I do.”
Buck swallows. “Then why did you—”
“You were so excited to be experimenting with them and I didn’t want to ruin it for you.”
The words are simple. Honest. Uncomplicated.
Buck steps further into the kitchen. “Eddie, you ate them for weeks.”
“I know.”
“All of them.”
“I know.”
“You told me they were good.”
“They were,” Eddie says immediately. “They were good because you made them.”
Buck stares at him.
The room feels too small. Too intimate. Too full of something heavy and fragile and terrifying.
“Eddie,” Buck says, voice unsteady, “why would you do that?”
Eddie looks at him for a long moment.
Really looks at him.
And the softness in his eyes hurts more than anything else could.
Then he says quietly, simply, and no hesitation at all, like he wasn’t about to turn Buck’s world upside down, “I would walk through a burning building for you. Eating something I don’t like just to see you excited is nothing.”
Buck’s breath leaves him in one sharp, broken exhale.
Something in his chest caves in.
Recognition.
Understanding.
Love.
It hits him all at once — every shared look, every quiet moment, every time Eddie chose him in a hundred small ways Buck never let himself name. Every instinct that told him safety lived in Eddie’s presence. Every moment he’d felt anchored just by standing next to him.
The love he’d been searching for.
The connection he thought he hadn’t found yet.
The missing piece.
It had been here the whole time.
Right in front of him.
Buck doesn’t think.
He moves.
He crosses the space between them in two steps and grabs Eddie’s shirt, pulls him close, and kisses him.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not careful.
It’s desperate and overwhelmed and full of everything Buck has never said out loud.
Eddie freezes for half a second — shock, surprise — and then he melts into it, hands coming up, fingers curling into Buck’s shirt, kissing him back like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like he’s been waiting.
Buck feels it everywhere — in his chest, his hands, his spine, his heart.
When they pull apart, they’re both breathing hard.
Buck rests his forehead against Eddie’s, eyes closed.
“I’m so stupid,” Buck whispers.
Eddie laughs softly. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You kind of are.”
Buck huffs a shaky breath. “I didn’t realize. I didn’t see it.”
Eddie’s voice is quiet. “I know.”
“I’ve been looking for something,” Buck says, words spilling out, raw and honest. “For years. Always feeling like something was missing. Like I kept almost finding it but never really—”
He opens his eyes.
Meets Eddie’s.
“And it was you,” Buck says. “It’s always been you. I just didn’t know how to see it.”
Eddie’s expression breaks.
In relief.
In love.
In everything unsaid finally being understood.
Buck kisses him again, slower this time, softer, deeper.
When they finally pull back, Eddie smiles, something private and tender and real.
“So,” Eddie murmurs, “does this mean I never have to eat plums again?”
Buck laughs, breathless. “God, no. You’re banned from plum desserts for life.”
“Good,” Eddie says seriously. “Because I was running out of nice things to say about them.”
Buck grins, brushing his thumb across Eddie’s cheek. “I’ll make you anything else. Literally anything else.”
Eddie leans into his touch. “I know.”
Outside, the barbecue continues. Laughter, voices, life moving on.
Inside the kitchen, Buck finally understands what home feels like.
Not a place.
Not a house.
A person.
And he’s standing right in front of him.