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The grocery store is too bright.
Buck notices it the way he always does, absently, like background noise. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, carts rattle over tile, and the low hum of people exists around him.
Normal.
This is normal.
“Okay,” Buck says, grabbing a cart and immediately steering it slightly off-course.
The front wheel squeaks in protest.
Buck pauses. Nudges it forward again.
Squeak.
He grins. “There it is,” he says. “That’s the one. Adds character.”
Eddie glances at the cart, then back at Buck.
“Or we could get one that works.”
Buck shakes his head, already pushing it further inside.
“No, no. This one has personality. You just have to commit to it.”
He gives the cart another shove.
Squeak. Buck laughs.
It sounds right. It looks right.
But it isn’t, and Eddie hears it in the way the laugh falls short—too light, too quick, like it never quite reaches him.
“Okay,” Buck continues, like nothing’s wrong. “We’re on a mission. In, out, no distractions.”
Eddie falls into step beside him anyway.
“You say that every time.”
“And every time, I mean it.”
“Last time you bought a waffle maker.”
Buck points at him. “That was a good decision.”
“You don’t even eat waffles.”
“I could,” Buck argues. “If I had waffles.”
Eddie huffs, but his attention doesn’t leave Buck.
Not really. Because now that he’s looking, really looking, he sees it.
The shadows under Buck’s eyes.
Not dramatic. Not obvious.
But deeper than they should be.
The way his fingers keep drifting to his hands.
Picking at his cuticles.
Absent. Repetitive.
The way he keeps moving. Doesn’t quite stop.
“Hey,” Eddie says, quieter this time. “We’re here for actual food. And snacks for Chris.”
“Copy that,” Buck says, offering a sloppy salute as he pushes the cart forward. “Responsible adults. We’ve got this.”
Squeak.
He laughs again.
And Eddie files it away.
Every piece of it.
Because no one else would notice.
But he does.
*
Buck turns a cantaloupe over in his hands, studying it like it might reveal something if he stares long enough.
He taps it once. Frowns.
“Eddie?”
“Yeah?”
Buck holds up two melons, weighing them like it matters.
“Do you think a cantaloupe or a honeydew melon will change my life?”
Eddie pauses.
Because it almost sounds like a joke.
Almost.
“Pretty sure that’s above my pay grade, man.”
Buck nods slowly, turning the honeydew again.
“Feels like it could, though,” he says, quieter.
Eddie steps closer. Not touching. Just there.
“Hey,” he says gently. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Buck answers too quickly. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He drops the honeydew into the cart like that settles it.
It doesn’t.
Eddie nudges his shoulder as they move on.
Buck leans into it for half a second, then straightens and keeps walking.
They stop in front of the tinned fruit.
Rows of identical labels. Peaches in syrup. Peaches in juice. Sliced. Halves.
Buck doesn’t move.
He just looks.
The cart wheel ticks softly against the tile.
Eddie watches him for a second too long.
“Hey,” he says, easy, like nothing’s wrong. “We need snacks for Christopher.”
No response.
Eddie steps closer. “Buck?”
Buck blinks slowly and turns his head, like he’s surfacing from somewhere far away.
For a second, there’s nothing there.
Eddie feels it drop, sharp and sudden in his chest.
“Chris,” he says again, softer now. “We said we’d grab him snacks, remember?”
Buck stares at him.
Blank. Lost.
Then something clicks.
“Right,” Buck says.
A beat.
“Snacks. Chris.”
Like he’s repeating instructions back.
He reaches forward, grabs the first thing he sees, tinned peaches in syrup, and drops them into the cart a little too hard.
“Got it,” he adds quickly.
Eddie nods once. “Yeah. Got it.”
But he doesn’t move away.
Stays close.
Buck keeps walking.
*
The line is short. Too short.
Buck focuses on unloading the cart. One item at a time.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Hi, how are you today?”
Buck nods. Doesn’t answer.
Eddie watches his hands.
Steady. Too steady.
Beep.
“Name’s Derek.”
Buck freezes.
The world tilts.
Sound drops out.
A jar slips from his hand and shatters.
Glass cracks across tile.
Yellow spreads, bright and spilling outward.
Buck doesn’t see it.
He doesn’t feel the cut either. A thin line opens across his thumb.
Blood wells.
Slow. Bright.
Drips down, mixing with the yellow on the floor.
Buck’s breathing goes wrong.
Eddie is there instantly.
“Buck. Hey...”
Nothing.
Eddie’s hand comes up to Buck’s neck, fingers pressing gently at his pulse.
His other hand steadies Buck’s shoulder.
He steps closer.
Forehead to forehead.
“Buck,” he murmurs. “Stay with me.”
“You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
Buck leans into him without thinking.
Into Eddie’s hand. Into the contact. Into the warmth.
Eddie adjusts, holding him there.
Steady. Certain.
“That’s it,” he says softly. “Just breathe.”
Buck inhales. Then again.
The world comes back slowly.
Buck finds him.
Eddie.
“You said that before,” Buck says, rough.
Eddie doesn’t move away.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “And I meant it then too.”
“Still do.”
Buck exhales.
“Yeah.”
They stay like that for a moment longer.
Then Eddie shifts slightly.
His gaze drops.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Your hand.”
Buck looks down.
“Oh.”
Eddie presses the edge of his Henley against the cut.
Careful. Steady.
“Stay with me,” he says again.
Buck watches him.
And stays.
“Okay,” Eddie says softly.
“Let’s get you out of here.”
Buck nods.
And Eddie keeps a hand on him all the way out.
Behind them, someone cleans up the yellow.
And the red.
But Buck doesn’t look back.
Because some things don’t fit in a basket.
And some things don’t need to.