Chapter Text
The Nashville Firefighter Games were supposed to be a distraction. For Evan Buckley, they were supposed to be a week of adrenaline, healthy competition, and escaping the suffocating silence of the 118’s loft where Bobby Nash used to flip pancakes.
Instead, Buck had spent four days being a world-class jerk.
He stood by the equipment trailers, the humid Tennessee air thick enough to swallow. He was looking for Ryan Hart. For the duration of the games, Buck had let his frustration bleed into his interactions, labeling Ryan a "trust fund cjild" and a "nepo baby" who probably had his turnout gear dry-cleaned by a maid. It was petty, it was cruel, and it was entirely because seeing Ryan laugh with his father—the Captain of the 113—made Buck’s chest ache with a phantom limb syndrome for a mentor who was buried.
"You still standing here, or are you waiting for a valet to bring your ego around?"
Buck turned. Ryan Hart was stripping off his competition jersey, revealing skin slick with sweat and soot. He looked every bit the elite athlete, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that didn't match the "rich kid" persona Buck had projected onto him.
"Ryan," Buck said, his voice cracking. "I... I’m an ass."
Ryan paused, a sarcastic retort dying on his lips. He tossed his jersey onto a gear bag. "Well, at least you’re self-aware. That’s a start."
"I’m sorry," Buck stepped forward, hands open in a gesture of truce. "Everything I said about you—about the money, the 'playing' at being a fireman—it was out of line. I didn't even know you. I just saw the last name, heard the whispers about your mother’s stables, and I snapped."
Ryan looked at the Rolex on his wrist—a graduation gift from his mother—and then back at Buck. "My mom is a Raleigh. As in Raleigh Whiskey. You know the label—the one that’s been in every high-end bar from here to London for a century. She thinks I’m insane for doing this job. She offers to buy me a law firm or a seat on the board of the distillery every Christmas just so I’ll stop 'smelling like a charcoal grill' and go back to managing the stables or the bottling plants."
Buck blinked, genuinely surprised. "Wait, so your dad... he isn't the one with the money?"
"My dad grew up in a trailer in East Nashville," Ryan said, his voice dropping an octave, filled with a fierce, protective pride. "He worked three jobs to put himself through the academy. He’s the Captain of the 113 because he bled for every single stripe on his shoulder. My mom’s family money? That’s her world. The 113? That’s his world. And I’ve spent my entire life caught in the middle, trying to prove to my dad that I’m not just a pampered Hart who happens to have a trust fund, and trying to tell my mother that her Raleigh inheritance can’t buy the feeling of pulling someone out of a basement fire."
Buck felt the air leave his lungs. He thought about his own parents—the coldness, the way they looked through him until he was useful. Then he thought about Bobby, the man who had built him from the ground up, only to leave a hole in the world that Chimney was now valiantly, desperately trying to fill as the new Captain.
"I lost my Captain," Buck confessed, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "Bobby Nash. He was... he was everything. He was the guy who told me I was enough. Since he passed, and Chim took over... everything feels wrong. I saw you and your dad, and I saw a legacy I’ll never have. I was jealous. I turned that into an insult because it was easier than feeling the grief."
Ryan’s posture shifted. The defensive line of his shoulders dropped. He walked over, stopping just a foot away from Buck. Up close, Buck could see the faint scar on Ryan’s jaw—a souvenir from a roof collapse, not a riding accident at the stables.
"I’m sorry about your Captain, Buck. Truly," Ryan said softly. "But don't mistake my life for an easy ride. Having a legend for a father and a mother whose family name is plastered on every bourbon bottle in the state means you’re always failing someone. If I’m a hero, my mom cries because I almost died. If I make a mistake, my dad looks at me like I’m a disappointment to the badge. I’m the 'Raleigh-Hart' kid in a firehouse that’s meant for guys who don't have a safety net."
"Sounds like a lot of pressure for one pair of shoulders," Buck remarked, his eyes tracing the line of Ryan’s collarbone.
"I manage," Ryan said, a small, lopsided smirk tugging at his mouth. "But hey, if you want to make it up to me, there’s a dive bar three blocks from here. No craft cocktails, no whiskey tastings, no family board meetings. Just cheap beer and a jukebox that only plays Haggard."
Buck felt a spark—something warm and dangerous—flicker in his gut. "I think I can handle that."
The dive bar was exactly what they both needed—a place where the air was thick with stale smoke, cheap neon, and the mournful twang of a pedal steel guitar. It was a world away from the gleaming, glass-walled lobby of the Raleigh Whiskey headquarters or the sterile, echoing silence of the 118’s loft.
They sat in a corner booth, the cracked red vinyl peeling away under Buck’s elbows. Between them sat two sweating glasses of local lager. The tension that had defined their week had dulled into something quieter, something more resonant.
"You know," Buck said, breaking the silence as he watched the condensation slide down his glass. "I spent all week trying to figure out why you rubbed me the wrong way. I thought it was the money. The 'Raleigh' name." He gestured vaguely toward the door. "But looking at you now, I think I was just looking for a reason to be angry at someone who had what I wanted. A family that stays together. A father who’s proud of the uniform you wear."
Ryan traced the rim of his glass, his expression darkening. "It’s not as simple as it looks on the outside, Buck. The legacy is a cage. My dad expects me to be him, and my mom expects me to be the heir to the distillery. I’m just a guy in the middle trying to figure out if I actually want to be a fireman, or if I’m just doing it because it’s the only place in my life where I don’t have to answer to a boardroom."
"I get that," Buck murmured. "I spent my life trying to be what everyone else needed. My parents, my sister, my past captains. It took me a long time to realize that the 'Buck' everyone saw wasn't necessarily the person I was."
Ryan looked up, his gaze intense. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that caught Buck off guard—a raw, flickering honesty that felt like a match being struck in the dark. For a heartbeat, the space between them seemed to shrink, the noise of the bar fading into a dull hum. Buck felt a familiar, electric hum under his skin, a magnetic pull he hadn't felt in a long, long time. He leaned in, his knee brushing against Ryan’s under the table.
Ryan didn't pull away. Instead, he let out a jagged, self-deprecating laugh. "It’s funny. I spend all day running into burning buildings to escape the pressure at home, but lately, I’m just running back to an empty house. Or, well... not empty."
Buck frowned, his heart giving a strange, uncomfortable stutter. "Not empty?"
Ryan stared down at his beer, his jaw tightening. "My wife. Sam. We’ve been married for three years, and for about two of them, we’ve been living like roommates who don't particularly like each other. She hates the fire department—says I’m married to the 113. She’s probably right. I’m just... I’m paralyzed, Buck. I don't know how to tell her I want out, or if I even have the right to blow up a life everyone expects me to lead."
The "spark" that had been building—that warm, hopeful sensation—didn't vanish, but it shifted. It became complicated, heavy with the reality of a life that wasn't yet free. Buck felt a pang of sympathy, mixed with a sudden, sharp clarity. He knew that feeling. He knew the suffocating weight of being stuck in a life that didn't fit.
"You don't have to blow it up all at once," Buck said, his voice low, steady. "You just have to be honest with yourself. If you’re already unhappy, staying isn't just hurting you, Ryan. It’s hurting her, too. You can’t be a good partner to someone if you’re constantly wishing you were somewhere else—or someone else."
Ryan looked at him, surprised by the sudden gravity in Buck’s tone. "You talk like a man who’s been there."
"I have," Buck admitted, thinking of his own fractured past, the relationships that withered because he was trying to be the man he thought he should be rather than the man he was. "When you lose someone like Bobby... you start to realize how short the fuse is. You don't have time to waste on a life that feels like a costume. You owe it to yourself to be authentic. Even if it’s messy. Especially if it’s messy."
Ryan studied Buck’s face for a long moment, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to dissipate. He took a long, slow drink of his beer. "I’ve never had anyone say that to me. Not without following it up with 'but think about what your mother will say' or 'don't ruin the family name.'"
"I don't care about your family’s whiskey," Buck said with a small, genuine grin. "And I don't care about the legacy. I care about the guy who pulled that kid out of the high-angle collapse today. That’s the guy I want to know."
Ryan smiled back, a tired, genuine expression that reached his eyes. "Well, that guy is currently exhausted, over-caffeinated, and about three seconds away from passing out."
"Then let's get you home," Buck said, standing up.
As they walked out into the cool Nashville night, the silence wasn't awkward anymore. It was expectant. A bridge had been built, even if it was spanned by a distance of two thousand miles and a crumbling marriage.
The walk to Ryan’s house was longer than the three blocks to the bar, but neither of them seemed to mind the humidity or the rhythmic crunch of their boots on the pavement. The neon glow of Broadway faded behind them, replaced by the hushed, tree-lined streets of a neighborhood that looked exactly like the kind of place a "Raleigh-Hart" was expected to live—stately, historic, and far too quiet.
As they reached a wrought-iron gate, Ryan slowed his pace. The house beyond was a beautiful, sprawling Craftsman, but the windows were dark.
"Empty," Ryan noted, his voice barely a whisper. He checked his phone. "Sam’s staying at her mother’s tonight. Again."
Buck leaned against the cool metal of the fence, shoving his hands into his pockets. The "world-class jerk" from four days ago was gone, replaced by the version of Buck that always felt too much, too fast. "Is that better or worse? The silence?"
Ryan looked at the dark house, then back at Buck. The sharpness in his eyes had softened into something resembling gratitude. "It’s louder than the bar, I’ll tell you that much." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, tapping the screen before handing it over. "Here. Before I lose my nerve or you realize you’re better off without a Nashville project."
Buck took the phone, his fingers brushing Ryan’s in the handoff. The contact felt like a live wire—brief, but enough to make the hair on his arms stand up. He quickly punched in his number, labeled it simply Buck (LA), and handed it back.
"I’m a 9-1-1 operator’s brother and a firefighter, Ryan," Buck said, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips. "I don't do 'better off.' I do 'showing up.' Even if it’s just a text from two thousand miles away."
Ryan tucked the phone away, nodding slowly. "I’ll hold you to that, Buckley." He paused at the gate, his hand hovering over the latch. "Good luck with the 118. And with Chimney. He’s lucky to have a guy like you in his crew."
"Thanks," Buck said, feeling a lump form in his throat. "And Ryan? Don't let the legacy drown the man. Bobby always said the uniform is what you do, not who you are."
Ryan offered one last, lingering look—a silent acknowledgement of the bridge they’d built in a single, smoke-stained night—before turning toward the dark porch.
Buck watched him go until the front door clicked shut. He turned and began the long walk back toward the hotel, the Nashville night air finally feeling a little less heavy. His phone buzzed in his pocket before he’d even cleared the block.
> Ryan: Thanks for the beer. And the reality check. Get some sleep, LA.
Buck smiled at the screen, the blue light reflecting in his eyes. He didn't feel like a jerk anymore. For the first time since Bobby’s funeral, he felt like he was heading toward something instead of just running away.