Archive of Our Own

Eddie had a plan.

Not a good plan, necessarily, but a plan in the way that if he put enough bullets on the page—Bar. Dinner. Walk. Another bar. Something with live music. A scenic overlook if he could find one.—eventually one of them would hit the target.

The target being: Tell Buck you’re gay. Tell Buck you’re gay and that it is, currently, causing Eddie’s brain to short-circuit every time Buck laughs or leans too close or says Eddie’s name like it belongs to him.

Nashville, as it turned out, was not built for plans.

Nashville was built for noise.

They’d flown in for the firefighter games—two days of cold air and grit and competition energy that clung to Eddie’s muscles even after they were done for the day. Their hotel sat a few blocks from the event space, full of other crews in matching shirts layered under hoodies, pink-nosed from the wind, running on that jittery post-event adrenaline. The lobby smelled like wet wool, stale coffee, and the sweet lie of complimentary lemon water.

Buck had dropped onto the couch in their shared room that afternoon like someone had unplugged him. Long legs splayed, hair still damp from the shower, T-shirt soft and slightly wrinkled from being dragged on too fast—warmth clinging to him in a way that made Eddie’s eyes do something inconvenient anyway.

Eddie stood at the little desk, staring at his notes on his phone.

He had typed them. He had deleted them. He had retyped them.

He had typed I’m gay and then stared at it like it might bite.

Buck watched him for a full ten seconds before saying, “You’re gonna wear a hole in the carpet if you keep pacing like that.”

Eddie stopped mid-step. “I’m not pacing.”

“You did three laps between the bed and the desk,” Buck said mildly, like he was reporting the weather. “I counted.”

Eddie dragged a hand down his face. “You count weird things.”

Buck shrugged, easy. “Only when they’re suspicious.”

“I’m not suspicious.”

Buck’s mouth twitched. “You kind of are.”

Eddie shifted his weight, immediately aware of his own body in a way that made everything worse.

Buck tilted his head slightly. “What’s going on?”

There it was. An opening. A perfectly normal, reasonable opening.

Eddie felt his throat close anyway.

He cleared it, pivoting hard. “Are you hungry?”

Buck blinked, as if the concept of food had to load in his brain. Then he grinned. “Always.”

Good. Great. Perfect.

Because Eddie’s first bullet on the page was: take Buck somewhere loud enough that Eddie could pretend he was fine—and then find a quieter corner and do the thing.

He was going to do the thing.

He grabbed his wallet and the room key. “Come on. I saw a place down Broadway. Quick drink. Maybe dinner.”

Buck swung his legs off the couch, already moving, already trusting. “Look at you,” he said, slipping on his shoes. “Mr. Nashville Tour Guide.”

“Don’t get excited. I’m just trying to keep you from going to sleep at eight and waking up at three a.m. to do push-ups.”

Buck made a face of offended innocence. “I have never done push-ups at three a.m.”

“You did in Minnesota.”

“That was necessary. There was a—” Buck searched the air for an excuse. “A lot of cheese.”

Eddie snorted despite himself, and for half a second, his chest eased.

Then Buck’s shoulder bumped his as they left the room, casual as breathing, and the knot pulled tight again.

Broadway at dusk looked like someone had taken every sound in the world and stacked it on top of itself.

Neon signs layered over neon signs, honky-tonks with open doors spilling music onto the sidewalk like it couldn’t be contained. People moved in a river—cowboy boots, sequins, bachelorette sashes, groups of tourists pointing at nothing and everything. The air smelled like hot asphalt, fried food, and the sharp bite of spilled beer.

Buck walked beside Eddie with his head tilted back, looking up at the signs like a kid in a candy store.

“This is… a lot,” he said, delight in his voice.

Eddie adjusted his pace automatically so Buck didn’t wander into traffic. “It’s like Times Square if it was sponsored by country music.”

Buck’s eyes lit. “Oh my God. Are those— Eddie, look. Those are cowboy karaoke bars.”

Eddie followed Buck’s gaze to a sign promising LIVE BAND KARAOKE in letters so bright they looked violent.

“Please don’t,” Eddie said.

Buck grinned, already plotting. “I’m just saying—”

“No.”

“I’m just saying, I could do ‘Friends in Low Places.’”

Eddie felt his soul leave his body. “You do not know the words.”

“I can read from the teleprompter!”

Eddie pushed open the door of the nearest bar before Buck could commit a felony against Eddie’s ears. Inside, it was dim and loud and packed shoulder-to-shoulder. A band played on a small stage—fiddle, guitar, drums—music vibrating through the floor.

They found space at the bar. Eddie ordered two beers without looking at the menu, because he was not here to sample artisanal craft anything; he was here to change his life.

The bartender slid the drinks over. Buck took a sip, then another, squinting at the label.

“Eddie.”

“What.”

“This is eight percent.”

Eddie shrugged. “We’re off duty.”

Buck looked impressed. “You’re trying to get me honest.”

Eddie didn’t react fast enough. “I am not.”

Buck’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Suspicious.”

Eddie took a drink of his own and shrugged. “That’s Nashville.”

Buck laughed, and Eddie’s chest did that stupid thing again.

Okay, Eddie thought. Here. Now. While he’s laughing. While it’s easy.

He leaned in slightly so Buck could hear him over the music. “Hey, Buck—”

Buck leaned in too, easy, familiar, like their bodies had learned each other’s gravity. “Yeah?”

He tried, honestly, he tried. “So, um. There’s something I—”

A man in a cowboy hat suddenly appeared between them like a summoned demon. He slapped a hand on Buck’s shoulder.

“Brother!” the man shouted, loud enough to be heard by God. “You two locals?”

Buck blinked, startled. Eddie stared at the hand on Buck’s shoulder like it was a threat.

“No,” Buck said, polite reflex kicking in. “We’re—”

“Visiting!” the man crowed. “Hell yes! Welcome to Nashville! First time on Broadway?”

Eddie’s jaw clenched.

Buck, because Buck was Buck, smiled warmly. “Yeah, actually.”

The cowboy-hat man leaned in like they were lifelong friends. “You gotta go down to The Stage. Best music on the strip. Unless you like the ladies—then you go to—”

Eddie’s eyes twitched. Unless you like the ladies. Great. Fantastic. 

Buck glanced at Eddie, Eddie forced his face into something neutral.

Cowboy-hat man slapped Buck’s shoulder again. “You boys here for work?”

Buck’s smile widened. “Firefighter games.”

Cowboy-hat man’s eyes went huge. “No way! That’s badass. Y’all are heroes.”

Eddie took a slow sip of beer and imagined setting something on fire. Not, like, arson. Just… a small, controlled blaze. For ambiance.

The man continued for another two minutes, listing bars and food spots and “where the real locals go,” which was always somewhere that sounded like it had a cover charge and an attitude.

Finally, he stumbled away into the crowd, apparently satisfied he’d performed his civic duty.

Buck watched him go, amused. “People are… friendly.”

Eddie stared at Buck. Buck stared back.

Eddie opened his mouth.

A woman on the stage suddenly shouted, “Y’ALL READY TO SING?”

The entire bar roared.

Buck’s head snapped toward the stage, eyes sparkling. “Oh my God. It’s—”

“Don’t,” Eddie warned.

Buck was already moving. “It’s karaoke with a band!”

Eddie grabbed Buck’s arm, but Buck’s momentum was unstoppable. “Buck.”

Buck looked over his shoulder, grinning like a menace. “Come on. Live a little.”

“I am living,” Eddie said through his teeth.

Buck tugged free gently, not even annoyed. He was bright and excited. “I’m not gonna sing,” he promised, which meant he absolutely was.

Eddie followed him through the crowd. He watched Buck at the edge of the group in front of the stage, laughing with strangers, clapping along, completely at home in chaos. Buck’s joy was a force of nature. It made people lean in.

It also made Eddie’s plan disintegrate like sugar in rain.

Okay, Eddie told himself. Not here. Next stop.

He could do the thing at dinner. Dinner was quieter. Dinner had table service and corners and less karaoke.

He waited until Buck had yelled “Woo!” at least three times and danced enough to qualify as a public disturbance.

Then he hooked a finger in Buck’s sleeve. “We’re leaving before you end up on someone’s TikTok.”

Buck looked genuinely offended. “I am excellent TikTok material.”

“You are,” Eddie agreed, and meant it.

Buck laughed, let Eddie steer him out, and Eddie tried not to think about how easy it was to guide him. How natural it felt.

Outside, the noise hit them like a wave again. Buck took a deep breath like he was drinking it in.

“I love this,” he said.

Eddie glanced at him. “You love everything.”

“I do not.”

“You loved that gas station we stopped at on the way to Texas.”

“It had a slushie machine,” Buck said defensively. “A good one.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, but his mouth tugged up. “Come on. Dinner.”

“Where?”

Eddie had picked it earlier. He had planned. He had researched—well, he had read two reviews and decided that counted.

“A place called Martin’s Bar-B-Que,” he said.

Buck’s eyes lit again. “Oh. Yes.”

Eddie led them down the sidewalk, elbowing past a group of women in matching pink cowboy hats. One of them screamed, “NASHVILLE!” for no reason. Another fell into a giggle fit.

Eddie kept his gaze forward. He was a professional. He was calm. He was—

A man on the sidewalk suddenly stepped into their path, holding a microphone.

“Hey!” he boomed. “You two! You look like you’re having a good time tonight!”

Eddie’s stomach dropped on instinct, but he managed to keep his face neutral. “Define good time.”

Buck smiled like he’d been summoned by a camera. “Uh—yeah! Yeah, we’re having a good time.”

The man’s grin went nuclear. “Love it. Love the energy. Are you guys on a date?”

Eddie felt his brain blue-screen for half a second.

Buck laughed, flustered but not denying fast enough, which was going to haunt Eddie forever. “No—we’re—”

“We’re best friends,” Eddie said quickly, and then, because he refused to sound like a corpse, he added, “Tragically.”

Buck choked on his laugh. “Hey!”

The man slapped a hand to his chest like he’d just been given gold. “BEST FRIENDS! That’s what they all say, baby!”

Buck made a strangled sound. “What does that even mean?”

“It means Nashville knows a love story when it sees one!” the man declared, and then shoved the mic toward Buck. “Okay! Nashville Nights street interview. Rapid fire. You ready?”

Buck squared his shoulders like he’d trained for this. “Born ready.”

Eddie’s soul tried to exit his body again, but he caught it by the collar. Fine. If the universe was going to force this into a performance, Eddie could perform. He had done worse at PTA meetings.

The interviewer pointed between them. “Names!”

“Buck,” Buck said immediately.

“Eddie,” Eddie said, and gave the interviewer a look. “And if this ends up on the internet for my son to see, I’m blaming him.”

Buck’s grin widened. “Fair.”

The man snapped his fingers like that was chemistry. “Okay! First question: If your best friend was a Nashville drink, what would he be?”

Buck didn’t even hesitate. “A whiskey sour.”

Eddie blinked. “Why.”

“Because you look intimidating,” Buck said, earnest as hell, “but you’re actually sweet. And also you punch people.”

“I do not—” Eddie started, automatically offended.

Buck’s eyes went bright. “You punched a guy in a parking lot once.”

“That guy deserved it.”

The interviewer gasped. “Okay! Drama! I love it. Eddie—what drink is Buck?”

Eddie stared at Buck for a beat too long. Buck stared back, amused, waiting.

Eddie cleared his throat, forced himself to keep it light. “Something with too much sugar.”

Buck laughed. “Rude.”

“And extra garnish,” Eddie added, because he was here now and apparently making choices. “Like—ridiculous amounts. A lime wheel. A cherry. One of those tiny umbrellas. Maybe a sparkler.”

Buck beamed like he’d just won something. “A sparkler?”

“You would love a sparkler.”

“I would love a sparkler,” Buck agreed, delighted.

The interviewer practically vibrated. “Okay, okay, okay—second question: Which one of you would survive a zombie apocalypse?”

Buck immediately pointed at Eddie. “Him.”

Eddie pointed at himself too, because he wasn’t going to lie on camera. “Me.”

The interviewer swung the mic back to Buck. “Why him?”

Buck launched into it like he’d been waiting for his TED Talk moment. “Because Eddie would be calm, he’d have a plan, he’d get supplies, he’d fortify a location, he’d be efficient about it—”

Eddie watched Buck talk about him like he was something steady and dependable and worth keeping alive, and tried not to let it get under his skin.

Buck finished triumphantly: “Also he has a silver star.”

Eddie couldn't help but laugh. 

Eddie looked at the interviewer. “Is this what you do? You just walk around asking people questions all night?”

The interviewer wheezed, laughing. “Okay, I love you two. Third question: Finish this sentence—‘If we get lost on Broadway, we’re—’”

Buck leaned toward the mic. “We’re fine because Eddie knows directions.”

Eddie leaned in too, because apparently he was participating now. “We’re doomed because Buck will try to ask a bachelorette party for help.”

Buck pointed at him. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s accurate.”

The interviewer cackled. “Fourth question! Most embarrassing thing your best friend has ever done.”

Buck’s eyes widened. “Oh no.”

Eddie’s smile turned sharp. “You said born ready.”

Buck sputtered. “We’re not doing that one.”

“Oh, we’re doing it,” Eddie said, cheerful now, because if Eddie had to suffer, Buck could suffer too. He leaned toward the mic. “He got stuck in a dog door once.”

Buck’s head whipped toward him. “That was— I was rescuing a dog!”

“You were halfway through a dog door,” Eddie corrected pleasantly. “For twelve full minutes.”

“It was a narrow dog door!” Buck protested, scandalized.

“It was a medium dog door,” Eddie said, still smiling. 

The interviewer made a noise like he’d just won the lottery. “BUCK! REBUTTAL!”

Buck looked like he wanted to launch himself into oncoming traffic. “Okay, first of all, the dog was panicking. Second of all, I got the dog out. Third—” He jabbed a finger at Eddie, eyes gleaming with vengeance. “Eddie once glued his own fingers together trying to fix a cabinet.”

Eddie blinked. “That happened one time.”

Buck’s grin turned feral. “It happened three times.”

“I panicked,” Eddie defended automatically.

“You read the instructions,” Buck shot back.

“They were unclear.”

“They said ‘do not apply directly to skin.’”

Eddie stared at him. “That feels subjective.”

The interviewer doubled over laughing. “You two are incredible. I need a whole series.”

Buck turned back to the mic, indignant but glowing. “For the record, I saved that dog.”

“And for the record,” Eddie said lightly, “I eventually freed myself.”

The interviewer wiped imaginary tears. “Okay, fifth question: Love or money?”

Eddie’s lungs forgot how to work.

This was literally the conversation. This was the opening. This was it. Except now there was a microphone and a ring light and an audience of drunk strangers slowing down to watch.

Buck, oblivious to Eddie’s internal crisis, took the mic like he was accepting an award. “Love.”

Eddie turned his head, staring at him.

Buck shrugged, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Money’s great, but— I don’t know. Love’s… love.”

The interviewer pivoted immediately, pouncing. “Eddie? Love or money?”

Eddie’s mouth went dry. His heart kicked hard against his ribs.

Say it, he thought. Just say something. Just take the opening.

He leaned toward the mic, the words right there, right at the edge of his tongue.

“I think—”

Buck’s phone rang.

Buck froze mid-smile, glancing down at the screen. “Oh—uh—sorry. That’s—”

Eddie already knew it would be someone from home. It was always someone from home.

Buck answered, half-apologetic, half-reflex. “Hey—what’s up?”

The interviewer, delighted by anything messy, stage-whispered into the camera, “Ohhh! The plot thickens!”

Eddie stared at the interviewer with the kind of calm that usually preceded violence.

Buck listened for a second, face shifting into work mode, and Eddie could practically feel the conversation evaporating around him like smoke.

Buck covered the mic with his hand, looking at Eddie. “It’s Maddie.”

Eddie shut his eyes briefly. Of course it was.

Buck kept talking, low and serious now, and the interviewer bounced on his heels like he’d just struck reality TV gold.

Eddie—because he refused to be the grouch in his own life—made a decision.

He leaned toward the interviewer’s mic while Buck was distracted and said, deadpan but smiling, “For the record? I pick love.”

The interviewer gasped like Eddie had proposed.

Eddie stepped back, watching Buck finish the call, trying to breathe through the fact that he’d just said the words out loud into a stranger’s microphone and it still hadn’t counted.

Buck hung up, exhaling. “Sorry. LA emergency.”

The interviewer laughed. “Y’all are incredible. Nashville loves love!”

Buck’s grin came back, sheepish and bright. “Did we—did we pass?”

Eddie smiled despite himself. “You did. I don’t know about me.”

Buck bumped Eddie’s shoulder lightly as they started walking again. “You were great.”

Eddie glanced at him. Buck was smiling like he meant it.

“So,” Eddie said, too loud, “barbecue.”

“Barbecue.”

Eddie’s plan was still alive.

Barely.

Martin’s was loud, but the kind of loud Eddie could handle—busy, clattering plates, music humming instead of screaming. They got a booth. A booth. Eddie had specifically wanted a booth, because a booth meant being enclosed, being able to lean in, being able to—

Their server showed up immediately, cheerful and fast-talking. “Hey y’all! Welcome! What can I get you to drink?”

“Two waters, please,” they said at the same time.

They both paused.

Buck glanced at him. “Hydration.”

Eddie nodded. “We’re evolving.”

The server grinned and disappeared just as quickly.

They ordered brisket, pulled pork, a spread of sides Buck insisted on “for research purposes.” Eddie nodded through it all, barely processing what he was agreeing to. His brain was elsewhere—running lines, rearranging sentences, drafting and redrafting something that felt impossible to say out loud.

This was better.

Dinner had structure. Dinner had built-in pauses. The clink of silverware. The hum of conversation around them. The safety of a booth and a table between them.

Dinner had time.

And time, Eddie told himself, was all he needed.

Buck was relaxed, elbows on the table, “I can’t believe we’re actually here,” Buck said, grinning. “Like—Nashville. Broadway. Barbecue. This is very… us doing something.”

Eddie huffed a laugh. “We do things.”

“We do,” Buck corrected. “This is like, different though.”

Eddie watched Buck’s hands as he talked. He always talked with his hands. Eddie had always noticed.

He swallowed. Okay. Now. Easy. Simple.

“Buck,” Eddie said.

Buck’s eyes flicked to him, attentive immediately. “Yeah?”

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,” Eddie said, and Buck’s expression softened immediately, like he’d heard the weight under it.

“Okay,” Buck said, gentle. “Tell me.”

Eddie’s throat tightened. He took a breath. “I—”

“Excuse me,” a voice cut in.

Eddie sighed and looked up.

A woman stood beside their booth, maybe mid-thirties, hair swept into a messy bun, cheeks flushed from the warmth of the restaurant and whatever she’d been drinking. She held a cocktail in one hand and a grin in the other.

“Hi,” she said, eyes on Eddie like he was the only person at the table. “Sorry. This is going to sound insane, but my friend dared me, and Nashville is basically lawless, so—”

Eddie blinked. “Okay.”

Buck, across from him, went very still.

The woman tipped her head, smile widening. “You’re really handsome.”

Eddie made a sound that wasn’t words. His brain, which had been rehearsing a life-changing confession, briefly wiped itself clean.

Buck’s eyebrows climbed, slow.

Eddie’s face went hot. “Uh—”

“I mean it,” she barreled on, undeterred. “Like, really handsome, it’s honestly rude. And I’m not trying to be weird, but you have… sad cowboy eyes.”

Eddie stared at her, helpless. “Sad cowboy eyes.”

She nodded, very serious about it. “Yeah. Like you’ve been through something. Like you own land. Like you’ve fixed a fence with your bare hands.”

Buck coughed—once—into his fist, like he was trying to smother a laugh or a noise of pain.

Eddie shot him a look that said do not.

The woman leaned closer, elbows propped casually on the edge of the booth like she belonged there. “So. Are you single?”

Eddie opened his mouth.

This was it, technically. This was the question.

He could answer it. He could answer it honestly. He could—

Buck’s gaze stayed on him, sharp and unreadable, waiting.

Eddie’s heart pounded.

He cleared his throat. “I’m—”

“Taken?” the woman suggested.

Buck’s head tilted a fraction, curious as to what Eddie was going to say.

Eddie’s brain short-circuited. “I’m… here with my best friend.”

Buck blinked, like he’d expected literally anything else.

The woman’s eyes flicked to Buck for the first time, really taking him in. Buck smiled politely—too politely.

“Oh,” she said, slower now. “Okay. Best friend. Got it.”

Eddie tried to recover his dignity. “Yeah. We’re—” He gestured vaguely. “Here for the firefighter games. We’re just—eating.”

The woman’s grin came back, unabashed. “That’s hot. Firefighter games is hot. You’re hot. This is a lot of hot information at once.”

Eddie’s ears burned.

Buck’s mouth twitched, like he was fighting for his life not to laugh.

The woman lifted her cocktail in a little salute. “Okay. I’ll be normal. I’ll leave you alone. But if your best friend ever fumbles this opportunity—” She pointed at Eddie with the straw. “—you come find me. I’m at the bar. I’ll buy you something that’s not water.”

Eddie managed, strangled, “Thanks.”

She winked—actually winked—and walked away like she hadn’t just committed a crime against Eddie’s nervous system.

Silence dropped back over the booth.

Eddie stared at his water glass like it had betrayed him personally.

Buck was still looking at him.

Eddie swallowed. “Don’t.”

Buck’s eyes were bright. His voice came out carefully neutral. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say anything,” Eddie said, because if Buck said the phrase sad cowboy eyes out loud, Eddie was going to dissolve into the upholstery.

Buck’s mouth twitched again. “Sad cowboy eyes.”

Eddie’s head dropped back against the booth with a soft thunk. “God.”

Buck’s laugh escaped, quick and warm, and it loosened something in Eddie’s chest even as it made him want to die. “I’m sorry,” Buck said, not sounding sorry at all. “I just—she had a point.”

Eddie dragged a hand down his face. “Why does this keep happening?”

Buck’s smile softened, like he remembered they’d been on the edge of something before Nashville turned into a sitcom. “What were you about to say?”

Eddie looked at him.

Looked at Buck’s open face, at the way he was still waiting, still giving Eddie room even after that circus.

Eddie’s pulse hammered.

He could do it now.

He could say it.

He took a breath. “I—”

And their server appeared out of nowhere, cheerful as a curse. “Hey y’all! How’re we doin’? Can I get you anything else? Dessert? Another round?”

Eddie closed his eyes.

Buck made a sound like he’d swallowed a laugh.

Eddie smiled up at the server with the calm expression of a man who had accepted his fate. “No,” he said, sweetly. “We’re great.”

Next stop, Eddie told himself.

Walk. Broadway. Something quieter.

He was going to do the thing.

He was.

After dinner, Eddie insisted on walking.

Buck didn’t argue. Buck never really argued when Eddie suggested things, which was—dangerous, honestly. Eddie could probably lead Buck into traffic with a gentle hand and Buck would just smile and follow.

They stepped back into the Nashville night. Broadway was louder now, wilder, glittering with drunk joy. Street performers had multiplied like someone had summoned them.

A man played violin with a speaker blasting a beat behind him. A woman sang with a guitar case open for tips, voice powerful enough to stop foot traffic. A group of teenagers did coordinated dance moves in the middle of the sidewalk.

Buck spun slowly, taking it all in. “This is insane,” he said, delighted. “It’s like the whole street is performing.”

Eddie nodded, scanning automatically, firefighter instincts never fully off. Too many people, too many drinks, too many potential falls. He kept one eye on Buck anyway, because Buck was a magnet for trouble.

They walked, shoulder to shoulder, weaving around groups. Eddie kept looking for a pocket of quiet—an alley, a side street, somewhere the noise thinned.

He spotted one: a small street branching off Broadway, darker, less crowded.

He nodded toward it. “Come on.”

Buck followed without hesitation. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere—” Eddie said, and his voice caught. “Quieter.”

They made it three blocks before Eddie finally found what he’d been aiming for: a quieter stretch of sidewalk off Broadway, where the music was still there but muffled, softened by the cold.

Buck walked beside him with his hands in his jacket pockets, breath fogging a little when he laughed—at Eddie, with Eddie, the way he always did when Eddie was actually trying.

Eddie let himself enjoy it. He really did.

He took a breath, turned his head. “Buck—”

“LOVERS PHOTOBOOTH!” a woman shouted from the sidewalk like she’d been waiting for them specifically.

Eddie stopped, startled, and then he laughed under his breath.

The woman stood beside a little pop-up stand with a neon sign that read NASHVILLE PHOTO BOOTH — FREE STRIPS! There was a basket of props that looked like it had been built entirely out of questionable decisions: feather boas, plastic guitars, sunglasses shaped like stars—

—and an entire pile of cowboy hats.

“Two minutes!” the woman sang, already clapping. “Free souvenir! You’ll regret it if you don’t!”

Buck’s eyes went bright. “Oh my God.”

Eddie watched Buck’s face, the pure uncomplicated delight of it, and felt something in his chest ease—just a notch. Not everything had to be a crisis. Not every second had to be heavy.

He bumped Buck’s shoulder lightly. “We should do it.”

Buck blinked, clearly surprised. “Wait—really?”

Eddie gave him a look. “Don’t make it weird.”

Buck grinned. “You just volunteered to take a lovers photo strip with me.”

Eddie pointed toward the booth like he was calling in a rescue. “Move.”

Buck laughed, delighted, and stepped up to the basket like he was about to select a weapon.

“Okay!” the attendant said. “Grab props!”

Buck reached for the most obnoxious hat in the pile—a silver disco ball, aggressively dramatic.

Eddie made a face. “Absolutely not.”

Buck held it up innocently. “What? It’s Nashville.”

Eddie rummaged in the pile and pulled out a charcoal cowboy hat. 

Buck’s grin softened. “Oh.”

Eddie felt his face warm and decided to commit. “Hold still.”

He stepped closer and put it on Buck’s head.

It was a stupid prop. A cheap hat from a basket on the sidewalk.

And it still did something violent to Eddie’s ability to form coherent thoughts.

Buck went still while Eddie adjusted the brim—small, careful movements, because Eddie couldn’t help it. Because if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.

Buck tipped his chin up slightly.

Their eyes met under the brim.

Eddie’s stomach dipped in a way that was frankly rude.

Buck’s mouth parted just a little, like he’d forgotten the joke for half a second.

Behind them, the attendant made a delighted noise.

Eddie pulled his hands back before he could do something even dumber. “There,” he said, voice steady through sheer force. “Now you look like you belong here.”

Buck’s grin came back, slower and warmer. “You put the hat on me.”

Eddie huffed a laugh, because he wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t. “Get in the booth.”

“Sure thing, cowboy,” Buck said, and ducked behind the curtain.

Eddie followed, still smiling, because—God help him—this was actually fun.

Inside was cramped immediately. Their knees bumped. Their shoulders pressed. Buck’s hat brim brushed the top of the frame when he shifted.

The machine beeped, a tinny voice crackling from a speaker: “Three… two… one…”

Buck leaned in, grinning, brim hovering close enough to Eddie’s forehead that Eddie could feel it without it touching.

Eddie shook his head, amused despite himself. “You are taking this very seriously.”

“It’s free,” Buck whispered like it was sacred.

Flash.

The voice chirped: “Pose two: best friends!”

Buck laughed and threw an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, pulling him in close.

Eddie laughed too—real, unguarded—because Buck was ridiculous and warm and the booth smelled faintly like plastic props and winter air.

Eddie leaned into it on purpose. Let himself, just for the picture.

Flash.

“Pose three: show off your hat!”

Buck tipped the brim at the camera with unnecessary flair.

Eddie reached up and adjusted it again automatically, fingers brushing Buck’s temple.

Buck’s eyes flicked to him.

Eddie’s smile faltered for a heartbeat, turning softer.

Flash.

For half a second it went quiet—just the hum of the machine and Buck’s breath close to his.

The voice chirped, cheerful as a threat: “Pose four: look into each others eyes!”

Eddie turned, still smiling, ready to make it stupid—

—and then Buck was looking at him like that. Like the joke had softened into something else. Like the whole city could be loud and ridiculous and Buck would still find the quiet center of Eddie anyway.

Eddie’s throat tightened.

He swallowed, smile still there because he refused to make it heavy, and leaned in a fraction. “Buck—”

Flash.

The curtain snapped open.

Cold air rushed in.

Buck stumbled out laughing, cheeks pink, still wearing the hat like it belonged there. “Oh my God,” he said, delighted. “We look incredible.”

Eddie stepped out after him, still laughing, and accepted the photo strip when it printed—mostly so Buck wouldn’t immediately wave it around like a flag.

He glanced down at it and felt his chest do a weird, warm lurch.

They looked… good. Happy. Easy. Like the thing Eddie kept trying to say wasn’t going to break them—just change the lighting a little.

Buck leaned in, shoulder bumping Eddie’s. “Show me.”

Eddie made a show of folding the strip and tucking it into his jacket pocket like it was a secret mission. “Later.”

Buck narrowed his eyes, amused. “Eddie.”

Eddie grinned, genuinely now. “Later.”

Buck’s smile turned bright again. “Okay. But I’m keeping the hat.”

Eddie snorted. “Of course you are.”

They started walking, Buck adjusting the brim with dramatic seriousness, and Eddie couldn’t help but laugh again.

It was still an interruption.

It was still not the conversation.

But Eddie was having fun anyway, because Buck was beside him and Nashville was ridiculous and for a few minutes the pressure in Eddie’s chest loosened enough to let him breathe.

Eddie bumped Buck back with his shoulder. “You look like you’re about to audition for a country music video.”

Buck’s grin went feral. “And you look like my mysterious best friend.”

Eddie shook his head, smiling, and tried again—gentler this time, because the world wasn’t ending. It was just… shifting.

“Buck,” Eddie said, quieter.

Buck looked over, attentive immediately, smile still there.

Eddie opened his mouth—

—and a tourist passing by pointed at Buck’s hat like it was a landmark. “Nice hat!”

Buck, of course, tipped the brim back at them with a grin.

The tourist laughed and kept walking.

Eddie exhaled, amused and exasperated all at once.

Buck stepped closer, voice softer. “Eddie—are you okay? You’ve been… weird.”

Eddie’s throat tightened.

This was the opening again. Buck had noticed. Buck was asking. Buck was standing under a streetlight with his face open and concerned and—

A group of tourists rounded the corner, maps in hand, looking lost and alarmed. One of them spotted Buck and Eddie and made a beeline toward them.

“Excuse me!” the woman said, breathless. “Hi—sorry—do you know where the Ryman Auditorium is?”

Eddie stared at her like she had personally attacked him.

Buck, because Buck was incapable of being anything but helpful, smiled immediately. “Oh! Yeah—um—”

The woman thrust her phone out with Google Maps open. “It says we’re close but we keep ending up by bars, and my mother is—”

A second tourist waved from behind her. “MA’AM, THIS IS DEFINITELY NOT THE RYMAN.”

Buck laughed lightly, already leaning toward the phone. “Okay, yeah, so—see this? You’re actually going the wrong direction.”

Eddie’s hands curled into fists in his pockets.

Buck was explaining directions with patient clarity, pointing and gesturing, making sure the group understood. Eddie watched him do it, and the anger in Eddie’s chest melted into something else—something softer and heavier.

Because this was Buck. This was always Buck. Helpful, kind, stepping in without being asked.

And Eddie wanted to tell him something real. Something that mattered. Something that had been sitting in Eddie’s throat for years.

The tourists thanked Buck profusely and hurried away, waving.

Buck turned back to Eddie, breath puffing out like he was resetting. “Okay. Sorry. Where were we?”

Eddie stared at him.

Buck’s eyes held his, steady. “You were saying something.”

Eddie’s heartbeat thundered.

He could do it now. Right here on a side street with tourists and mechanical bulls and streetlights.

He opened his mouth—

A scream cut through the air.

Eddie and Buck both snapped toward it instantly, bodies moving before thought. The sound came from around the corner, back toward Broadway.

They ran without talking, weaving back into the noise.

The crowd had clustered near the curb where a man was on the ground, clutching his ankle, face pale. A scooter lay tipped on its side. Someone held a phone up, already calling 911.

Eddie dropped to a knee, scanning. “What happened?”

“He fell,” someone said, voice shaky. “He—he hit the curb.”

Buck knelt beside Eddie, already assessing. “Hey, buddy,” Buck said, voice calm. “Can you tell me your name?”

The man groaned. “Kyle.”

“Okay, Kyle,” Buck said. “I’m Buck. This is Eddie. We’re firefighters. Can you wiggle your toes?”

Eddie felt the familiar shift into work—focus snapping into place. He checked the man’s leg, careful, hands steady. The ankle was swelling fast.

“Probably sprained,” Eddie muttered.

Buck nodded. “Any head injury? You hit your head?”

Kyle shook his head weakly. “No. Just—God—my ankle.”

Eddie glanced up at the crowd. “You,” he pointed at the person with the phone. “Tell dispatch you have off-duty LAFD firefighters assessing, possible ankle injury, no loss of consciousness, stable vitals.”

The person nodded, repeating it into the phone like it was the most important role of their life.

Buck kept talking to Kyle, calm and reassuring. Eddie did what Eddie did—structured, practical. He immobilized the ankle as best he could with a rolled jacket and gentle pressure.

They stayed with Kyle until the ambulance arrived, handing off information fast and efficient. The EMTs thanked them. The crowd dispersed, disappointed it wasn’t more dramatic.

Eddie stood, wiping his hands on his jeans, adrenaline fading.

Buck exhaled hard beside him. “Well,” Buck said, voice a little breathless, “that was… not the plan.”

Eddie stared at him.

Buck looked back, eyes bright with leftover adrenaline, hair falling into his forehead. “You okay?”

Eddie let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

Buck’s gaze sharpened. “Eddie.”

Eddie’s throat burned.

He had almost done it. He had almost said it in the calm after an emergency, where everything felt clear and real.

Instead, Nashville had thrown an actual emergency at him like a punchline.

Eddie looked up at the neon chaos of Broadway and felt something in him snap.

He turned back to Buck. “Let’s go back.”

Buck blinked. “Back where?”

“The hotel,” Eddie said flatly. “Before someone else sprains something.”

Buck hesitated, still watching Eddie like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Then he nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Hotel.”

They walked back in quieter silence, the city roaring around them like it didn’t care about Eddie’s existential crisis.

Eddie’s plan was a corpse.

The hotel elevator was mercifully silent.

Buck leaned against the wall, shoulders loose, looking tired now. Eddie stood beside him, staring at the floor indicator like it might provide guidance.

When the elevator dinged, Eddie stepped out first. He needed movement. He needed something to do with his hands that wasn’t punching Broadway in the face.

They got back to their room. Buck kicked off his shoes, flopping onto the couch again with a groan.

Eddie hovered near the desk, still restless. His chest was tight, like the words were trapped and angry now.

Buck watched him. “Okay,” Buck said, voice careful. “What’s going on with you?”

Eddie’s breath caught.

Buck sat up a little, elbows on his knees. “You’ve been weird all day. And I know you don’t like… Broadway chaos, but you picked it. You picked dinner. You picked—everything.”

Eddie stared at Buck.

Buck’s gaze stayed on him, steady and warm and irritatingly patient. “So either you’ve got something you want to do, or something you want to say, or—” Buck paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “—you’re planning to murder someone.”

Eddie let out a breath that almost laughed. “Not murder.”

Buck waited.

Eddie’s hands flexed at his sides. He had tried to make it special. He had tried to make it right. He had tried to find the perfect location and the perfect moment.

Nashville had laughed in his face.

Maybe the perfect moment wasn’t a moment at all. Maybe it was just… now. A hotel room. A couch. Buck in socks. The distant hum of the city outside.

Mundane.

Safe.

Eddie swallowed hard. “I have been trying to tell you something.”

Buck’s face softened. “Okay.”

Eddie’s heart hammered. He could feel himself wanting to bolt, to escape the vulnerability, to hide behind jokes and brisket and neon.

He didn’t.

He stepped closer to the couch, because distance felt like cowardice.

Buck’s eyes tracked him, attentive.

Eddie opened his mouth.

And then—because the universe apparently could not resist one last attempt—Buck’s phone buzzed on the coffee table.

Eddie’s eyes flicked to it automatically, reflex like a trigger.

Buck looked at the phone too.

Then Buck looked back at Eddie.

And, slowly, deliberately, Buck turned the phone over so the screen faced down.

Eddie’s breath stuttered.

Buck’s voice was quiet. “I’m not answering it.”

Eddie stared at him.

Buck held his gaze, steady. “Tell me.”

Something in Eddie’s chest loosened, like a knot finally giving.

He let out a shaky breath, hating himself for how hard this was. For how much it mattered.

“I’m—” Eddie’s voice cracked, and he winced. “I’m gay.”

Buck blinked once.

Eddie’s pulse slammed. He rushed on, because if he stopped he might die. “And I’ve been trying to tell you all day, and Nashville is apparently cursed, and I swear to God if you—”

Buck’s mouth opened slightly, like he was caught between surprise and laughter and something else. Something softer.

Eddie’s throat burned. “And I don’t know why I picked Broadway like I’m immune to chaos, and I kept trying to make it—” He made a helpless gesture. “—a moment. And it kept getting ruined, and—whatever. That’s it. That’s what I needed to say.”

He stopped. He swallowed hard. He waited for the world to end.

Buck didn’t speak for a beat. He just stared at Eddie like he was processing a new shape of something he’d always known was there.

Then Buck stood.

He stepped toward Eddie, slow and careful, like he didn’t want to startle him.

Eddie didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Buck stopped close—too close for comfort, too close for sanity—and Buck’s voice came gentle, almost reverent.

“Eddie,” Buck said, and Eddie’s name sounded like something precious. “Okay.”

Eddie’s eyes flicked over Buck’s face, searching for anything—confusion, disgust, pity, anything that would hurt.

There was none.

There was only Buck, open and soft and earnest.

Eddie looked at him again, breath shaky. “You’re… okay?”

Buck’s expression softened again, like Eddie asking that hurt him a little. “Yeah,” Buck said simply. “Yeah, Eddie. I’m okay.”

Eddie’s throat tightened. “You’re not—mad?”

Buck blinked, genuinely confused. “Mad? Why would I be mad?”

Eddie stared at him. “Because—” He gestured helplessly at himself. “Because I didn’t tell you. Because you didn’t know. Because—”

Buck stepped closer, like he was closing the distance on purpose. “Eddie,” Buck said, quieter now. “You don’t owe me information about yourself on my schedule.”

Eddie swallowed hard, throat thick.

Buck’s eyes held his, bright and steady. “I’m glad you told me,” Buck said. “And I’m… sorry Nashville tried to fight you about it.”

Eddie let out a laugh that came out half broken. “It really did.”

Buck’s smile warmed. “It did.”

Eddie’s shoulders eased slightly, like his body was finally realizing it could breathe.

And then—because Eddie’s brain couldn’t let him have peace without adding one more complication—he heard himself say, “Also, I kept trying to tell you because I—”

He stopped.

Buck’s brows lifted, not pushing, just waiting.

Eddie’s heart slammed against his ribs. The words sat right there, ready to ruin his life in an entirely different way.

He had promised himself one conversation at a time.

But Buck was here, close, phone face-down, eyes soft.

Eddie exhaled. “Never mind.”

Buck’s head tilted, like he didn’t buy it. “Eddie.”

Eddie shook his head quickly. “No. That’s—another conversation. Another time. I’m not—” He let out a short, hysterical laugh. “I’m not letting Nashville win twice in one night.”

Buck’s mouth twitched. “Okay,” he said. “Another time.”

Eddie nodded, relieved and terrified all at once.

Buck’s gaze dropped briefly—to Eddie’s mouth, maybe, or to the space between them—and then lifted again.

Buck stepped back half a pace, giving Eddie room, like he understood Eddie needed it.

Eddie exhaled, shaky.

Then, absurdly, Buck’s stomach growled again—loud, dramatic, like it was trying to be included.

Buck froze, embarrassed. “Oh my God.”

Eddie stared at him.

Buck’s face went red. “I know we ate barbecue, but I think my body is—like—adjusting to the fact that I stopped moving.”

Eddie laughed. He couldn’t help it. It burst out of him, real and loose, the tension finally cracking.

Buck grinned, relieved, laughing too. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not,” Eddie lied.

“You are.”

Eddie shook his head, still smiling. “You’re a mess.”

Buck’s grin softened. “Yeah,” he said, quieter. “But I’m here.”

Eddie’s chest tightened again, but this time it didn’t feel like fear. It felt like something else. Something steady.

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

Buck’s smile stayed. He reached out—not touching, not pushing—just letting his hand hover near Eddie’s like an offering.

Eddie looked at it. Then looked at Buck.

And because it was mundane, because it was quiet, because Nashville had finally shut up long enough for Eddie to breathe—

Eddie took Buck’s hand.

Buck’s fingers closed around his immediately, warm and sure, like it had always been meant to fit.

Eddie let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding for years.

Outside, Broadway kept screaming and singing and flashing neon like nothing had changed.

Inside, Eddie stood in a hotel room with his best friend’s hand in his, and the world was suddenly, unbelievably, quiet.

Buck squeezed gently. “So,” Buck said, voice light but careful. “Do you want to tell me what you were trying to say all day, or do you want to let me pretend it was just because you really love barbecue?”

Eddie shot him a look.

Buck grinned.

Eddie huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Go shower,” he said, because he needed to regain control of something. “You smell like Broadway.”

Buck’s eyes widened, offended. “I do not.”

“You do.”

“That’s—” Buck gestured helplessly. “That’s atmosphere.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, still smiling. “Go.”

Buck let go of Eddie’s hand reluctantly, like it cost him something. He backed toward the bathroom, pointing at Eddie. “We’re not done talking.”

Eddie’s heart stumbled.

He forced his face into something unimpressed. “Yes, we are.”

Buck’s grin turned softer, like he saw right through him. “No,” he said gently. “We’re not.”

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, humming something Eddie couldn’t identify—probably a country song he’d absorbed by osmosis.

Eddie stood alone for a moment, staring at the door, hand still warm from Buck’s grip.

He exhaled, long and slow.

He hadn’t gotten the perfect moment. He hadn’t gotten the neon confession on Broadway or the dramatic heartfelt speech over brisket or the romantic walk with city lights.

He’d gotten a hotel room. A couch. A face-down phone. Buck choosing him over the buzz of the world.

He reached for the photo strip again, thumb tracing the edge before he could stop himself.

Their faces angled toward each other like the booth had asked a question neither of them knew how to answer.

He was staring at it when the bathroom door opened.

Buck leaned out, damp hair tousled, towel slung low, eyes immediately zeroing in on Eddie’s hands.

Buck’s smile spread, slow and bright. “Aw. You’re looking at it.”

Eddie’s face heated. “No, I’m not.”

Buck’s eyebrows lifted. “Eddie.”

Eddie glared, but it had no power when he was holding a literal photo strip of them pressed together. “Go away.”

Buck’s grin turned wicked. He stepped one foot out, just far enough to be a menace. “Just so you know,” he said, voice easy, “I’m aware of the cowboy hat thing.”

Eddie blinked. “The—what thing.”

Buck’s gaze flicked down to the strip again, then back up, warm and direct. “The rule,” he said, like it was the simplest fact in the world.

Eddie swallowed. “There is no rule.”

Buck hummed, unconvinced. “Mm.”

Eddie tightened his grip on the strip. “Get back in the shower.”

Buck laughed—quiet, fond—and dipped back behind the door. “Okay. But I’m keeping the hat.”

Eddie stared at the door, then looked down at the strip again.

Outside, the city roared.

Inside, Eddie had what he’d wanted to say.

And Buck—apparently—had been paying attention the whole time.