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Eddie knows something is wrong with his kitchen.
He just doesn’t know what.
He stands in front of the open fridge at six in the morning, staring at the strawberries like they’ve personally betrayed him.
There are five.
There were six.
He is sure there were six.
He bought them yesterday. He remembers because Christopher asked for strawberries and Eddie had said, “These are for the week, buddy, not all at once,” which is a thing you only say when you are aware of the exact strawberry count.
He closes the fridge. Opens it again.
Still five.
He squints at them.
“Okay,” he mutters. “Okay. Fine.”
Maybe he’s misremembering.
He shuts the door, grabs his coffee, and turns toward the counter.
The sugar bag is open.
Not ‘open’ open, it’s still rolled shut… it’s just not clipped. Which is fine. Truly.
It’s just— Eddie had been sure he’d clipped it shut. He even dug through his junk drawer for a solid five minutes to find a chip clip for it and everything.
Eddie frowns.
He’d really been trying to be proactive about his kitchen since y’know… Ants. Texas. Lessons learned the hard way.
He goes searching for another clip already dreading it.
That’s it. After this I’m going to buy a huge bag of chip clips. One of those massive 50 packs that they sell on Amazon.
Giving up on his mission he slams the drawer shut and opts to just tape the bag shut for now.
Then he notices the flour.
There’s a faint dusting of it on the counter. Barely anything. Like someone tapped a spoon there and brushed it away.
He stares at it.
Christopher is at school. Buck hasn’t cooked for them in days. No one else has keys.
He looks slowly around the kitchen.
His eyes land on the loaf of bread.
He walks over.
Lifts the bag.
One slice has two perfect square holes in the middle of it.
Not torn.
Cut.
Neat. Precise. Surgical.
Eddie just stands there holding the bread. Peeking his eyes through the holes.
“…what the hell?”
Buck isn’t totally sure how this all started.
That’s the problem.
If he could point to a single, reasonable moment in time and say ‘there’, that’s where this became his life, he might feel less ridiculous about it.
But he can’t.
It all started on a regular Tuesday during his recovery as a joke.
A boredom joke. A recovery joke. A ‘I have been sitting on this couch for three weeks and if I watch one more daytime cooking show I’m going to lose my mind’ joke.
He’d been stuck at home after the ladder truck accident, leg still immoble, movement limited, energy shot. Too restless to nap. Too tired to do anything real. The TV had been on for hours when he’d fallen down a YouTube rabbit hole of miniature cooking videos.
Tiny knives. Tiny pans. Tiny food.
He’d laughed out loud.
Then, because he had absolutely no impulse control and an Amazon account, he’d ordered a “miniature kitchen set for dollhouses” at two in the morning.
Then the next morning when he was thinking more clearly he ordered a set of miniature pots and pans to match. Along with some utensils because he’s not an animal.
It arrived two days later.
He told himself he was just going to mess around with it. Kill an afternoon. Maybe send a stupid video to the group chat so Chim could make fun of him for the rest of his life.
Instead, he’d propped his phone up on a stack of cookbooks, dragged his coffee table into better light, and tried to cook up some miniature pancakes with his new supplies.
It had taken forty minutes.
He’d laughed the entire time.
He uploaded it to Youtube on a whim.
He remembered thinking, ‘Hey, maybe someone else will get a kick out of this, too’
No face. No intro. No music. Just the title: miniature pancakes :-) posted onto a channel he half-mindedly named, “TinyKitchenTuesdays” because well… It was Tuesday and the video was made in a tiny kitchen.
He then proceeded to forget about it for two days.
When he checked again, it had fifteen thousand views.
And comments.
So many comments.
People loved it. They thought it was relaxing. Cute. Calming. Someone said they fell asleep to it. Someone else asked for a tiny grilled cheese.
Buck had stared at his phone like it alone held the solution to all of his boredom.
Then he made a miniature grilled cheese.
And a miniature omelette.
And a tiny pot of soup that took him an hour and a half and made enough for maybe three spoonfuls if he was being generous.
At some point, it stopped being a joke he was doing to pass the time and started being… a routine.
Something to plan.
Something to think about.
He’d wake up and find himself wondering what he could make small next.
What would be funny.
What would be satisfying.
What people in the comments kept asking for.
The videos were quiet. No music. No editing tricks. Just his hands, a counter, and the tiny kitchen set he’d arranged inside a shoebox lid so it looked like a real space.
It was stupid.
It was harmless.
It was, embarrassingly, the most focused he’d felt since the accident. Which might be why he never did end up sending that first video to the groupchat. While it had started out as a joke it somehow didn’t end that way. He didn’t know if he could handle acknowledging that to himself, let alone everyone else.
He liked figuring out how to scale things down. Liked the problem-solving of it. How long it took. How careful he had to be. How he couldn’t rush any of it.
Everything had to be slow.
Precise.
Deliberate.
It gave his brain somewhere to go when it wouldn’t stop replaying the moment the truck slipped.
He never expected anyone to care after the first original video.
He’d thought it to be a one hit wonder that people would quickly move on from.
But they didn’t.
The view counts climbed. The comments multiplied. People started recognizing his “style,” which he still didn’t think he had.
By the time he was gearing up to go back to work, he almost stopped.
Almost packed the tiny pans into a drawer and pretended it had just been a weird recovery phase.
But then Tuesday came around, and he realized he hadn’t uploaded in a week.
And he… kind of missed it.
So he set the lights back up on his kitchen table.
Propped his phone into the tripod.
And made a tiny chocolate cake before his shift.
He didn’t tell anyone.
He couldn’t.
Not Chim. Not Maddie. Not Bobby. And definitely not Eddie, who would stare at him in that deeply unimpressed way and say, “You’re doing what with your free time?”
It became his little secret.
One that, for some reason, felt too personal to share.
Especially because it hadn’t just filled time.
It had filled silence.
Especially when he hadn’t gone back to work once his leg was healed. Not right away, anyhow. Not like he’d expected, no— had planned to.
There had been the lawsuit.
The meetings. The waiting. The anger he didn’t know what to do with. The humiliation of feeling like the problem everyone was trying not to talk about.
He’d spent a lot of days alone in his loft during that time.
A lot of nights staring at the ceiling, too wired to sleep and too tired to think.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that, he’d end up setting up the tiny kitchen.
At first it was because he needed something to do with his hands.
Then because it gave his brain somewhere to go that wasn’t the spiral of ‘what ifs’ and ‘what now’ and worst, the ‘who am I if I’m not a firefighter.’
He didn’t have to be anything when he was filming.
Didn’t have to be angry.
Didn’t have to be hurt.
Didn’t have to explain himself.
It was just quiet.
Small.
Contained.
He could control it.
And when the comments kept coming in, strangers saying they liked it, that it was calming, that it helped, it felt like the only thing in his life at the time that wasn’t complicated.
So he kept doing it.
Not because it was funny anymore.
Not because it was a joke.
But because it was the only thing that didn’t feel like it was slipping out from under him.
By the time the lawsuit ended and he went back to the 118, the habit was already cemented.
Too tied to that version of himself to just pack away.
Too personal to explain.
So he didn’t.
He just… kept it.
And so he continued on like that. At some point he’d meant to come clean to the team.
Maybe just an offhanded remark, “Hey guys! Funny story… I actually started a Youtube channel where all I do is make miniature foods.”
But even in his head it sounded ridiculous.
Which is how he got to today, a handful of years too many later, still holding onto this dirty little secret.
Just like how Buck hadn’t meant to start his channel he also hadn’t meant to start his bad habit of ‘borrowing’ ingredients from Eddie’s house.
The thing is— Buck knows it's not good. Okay. It’s actually admittedly kind of terrible of him. Especially, since Eddie has no idea he’s even been doing it.
But…
Buck doesn’t like to waste food.
It’s no real excuse. He knows that. He does.
Still.
Buck had been at this for a while now and he’d started to realize something about his little hobby.
It’s so wasteful.
Like, for years now, Buck has been buying full sized ingredients to make one teeny tiny dish.
A whole bag of carrots for two thumbnail sized slices.
A carton of eggs to use, maybe a tablespoon.
A loaf of bread for a dime sized cutout.
And once he’s done?
What is he supposed to do with the rest?
Now, even more so than ever.
At first he tried to cook the leftovers into actual meals.
But after a while, he got tired of eating the same ingredients he’d just spent an hour turning microscopic. It stopped being fun when dinner felt like a byproduct of a video.
Now, especially, with how often he uploads, it’s even worse.
He’s made so many things by this point that he’s run out of the foods he actually likes.
Which is fine.
The dishes are tiny anyway. Half the time he doesn’t even eat them.
Except.
To make the dishes, Buck still has to buy the ingredients.
And they only come in normal, human-sized amounts.
Which is how he found himself, over time, noticing that Eddie always has exactly the kind of kitchen that solves this problem.
A fridge full of normal food.
A pantry full of staples.
Things that will absolutely get used.
Things that will not go bad because he borrowed a teaspoon.
It started small.
A pinch of salt here. A slice of mushroom there.
And then, without him really clocking when it happened, it became… convenient.
Eddie never noticed.
Why would he?
No one notices a missing teaspoon of flour.
No one notices one baby carrot that’s slightly shorter than it used to be.
Buck tells himself this every single time he does it.
And every single time, he fully intends for it to be the last time.
He will absolutely go buy his own carrots next time.
He will.
Probably.
He takes another sip of water, watching Eddie patiently explain fractions to Christopher, and feels a tiny, distant prickle of guilt.
Which he ignores.
Because he only needed a little bit.
Eddie would never notice, anyway. Right?
Eddie notices something is off the second he walks into the kitchen the next morning.
Not because anything looks obviously wrong.
But because something feels off.
He’d been noticing something hasn’t been quite right for a long while now and it’s really starting to bother him.
The counter.
He stares at it.
There’s the faintest smear of white near the edge. So light he almost misses it. Like someone brushed their hand through flour and then forgot to wipe it away.
Eddie steps closer.
Touches it with his fingertip.
Flour? Baking powder? Baking soda? To be perfectly honest, unless it’s in a marked container Eddie can’t tell the difference.
Except—
He opens his cupboard and looks toward the shelf.
The baking powder lid isn’t on all the way.
Something left open.
Again.
A slow, suspicious frown pulls at his mouth.
He snaps the lid down into place.
Deliberatively.
Then he opens the fridge.
The last of his bag baby carrots sit in their plastic, perfectly innocent.
Except.
He pulls the bag out and dumps a few into his hand.
One of them is… sliced.
Not bitten. Not snapped. Not broken.
Chopped.
Like someone carefully sliced the end off.
Eddie just stands there holding the carrot.
His gaze drifts back to the counter.
The baking powder on the counter,
The lid sealed into place.
The carrot.
His eyes narrow.
He turns in a slow circle, scanning the kitchen like he expects to catch something in the act.
The doors are locked.
The windows are closed.
Christopher is still asleep.
There is absolutely no one here.
Eddie looks back down at the carrot in his hand.
“…okay,” he says quietly to himself.
He puts it back in the bag with the others.
Closes the fridge.
Stares at the counter again.
“I have a rat,” Eddie says out loud to the empty kitchen.
And, honestly?
That’s the only explanation that makes any sense right now.
Eddie brings it up halfway through lunch.
Which is how you know it’s been bothering him all morning.
They’re crowded around the table in the loft, takeout containers everywhere. Chim is mid story, Ravi is listening like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard, and Hen is texting Karen back with one hand when Eddie says, very seriously,
“I think I have a rat.”
Hen pauses with her fork in the air.
Chim blinks at him. “You think?”
Ravi’s head pops up immediately. “Oh, those are bad. They get in the walls. My cousin had one once that chewed through—”
“This one isn’t normal,” Eddie cuts in.
Buck, sitting beside him, goes very still.
Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to clock it.
But his shoulders lock up just a fraction.
Bobby looks up from where he’s been quietly eating at the end of the table. “What’s going on?”
Eddie gestures with both hands, already frustrated. “Stuff is missing. But like— microscopic amounts. A teaspoon of flour. A spoonful of sugar. A single strawberry. A baby carrot chopped like someone took a knife to it.”
Ravi frowns. “That’s… a really precise rat.”
“Thank you,” Eddie says, pointing at him. “That’s what I’m saying.”
Hen sets her fork down. “Are you sure Christopher isn’t just—”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Eddie says. “And get this.”
He leans forward on his elbows.
“A week ago, there was a slice of bread in the bag with a perfect square cut out of the middle of it.”
Hen blinks.
Chim blinks.
Ravi slowly says, “…what?”
Buck’s head whips up from his food and towards Eddie before he can stop it.
“Like with a cookie cutter?” he asks, way too interested.
All five of them look at him.
Buck freezes for half a second, then tries to recover. “I mean. That’s weird. That’s really weird.”
Eddie one hand down on the table and points at him. “Yes! Exactly! Like with a cookie cutter.”
Chim squints. “That’s no rat.”
Bobby nods thoughtfully. “You should check for entry points anyway. Could be something getting in through the vents.”
Eddie sighs. “I did. Everything’s sealed.”
Buck laughs.
Too loud. Too sudden.
“Man,” he says, shaking his head. “You definitely have a rat.”
Eddie narrows his eyes at him.
“…you think this is funny?”
Buck shrugs, grinning. “I think you need a hobby.”
Hen’s gaze shifts to Buck and stays there a second too long.
Because Eddie sounds confused.
Ravi sounds concerned.
Bobby sounds thoughtful.
And Buck is being just a little bit weird.
Eddie hadn’t meant for this to become part of his routine.
He’d been looking for rain sounds.
It had been one of those nights where sleep felt impossible — not because he wasn’t tired, but because his brain wouldn’t slow down enough to let him have it. The house was too quiet, Christopher already asleep in the other room, his alarm clock glowing too bright in the dark, and his bed was too soft. He just couldn’t get settled.
He picked his phone off the bedside table where he’d left it to charge for the night and typed rain for sleeping into YouTube with the dull, familiar frustration of someone who had done this a hundred times before.
White noise. Thunderstorms. Ocean waves. All the things that sometimes worked.
A thumbnail in the sidebar caught his eye by accident.
A tiny pan.
Calloused hands.
A cutting board that looked like it belonged in a dollhouse.
He clicked it without really thinking.
There was no music.
No talking.
Just the soft, steady sound of a knife tapping against wood.
The faint scrape of something being stirred in a pan.
The gentle clink of metal.
Eddie had watched for maybe thirty seconds.
And then he was gone.
Out like a light.
He woke up the next morning with his phone still in his hand and sunlight coming through the blinds, disoriented in the best possible way.
Because he couldn’t remember the last time he had fallen asleep that fast.
The last time he had slept that deeply.
Honestly?
The only times he ever seemed to get a good night’s sleep anymore were when Buck crashed on his couch after a late shift, snoring softly fifteen feet away like a human white noise machine.
The next night Eddie went back to YouTube that night and searched for it again.
TinyKitchenTuesdays.
He didn’t know why it worked.
It shouldn’t.
But something about the quiet, the careful movements, the predictable rhythm of it — the tiny, contained sounds of someone doing something gentle and deliberate — made his brain finally unclench.
Years later, even as sleep has gotten easier to manage the longer he’s been out of the military, it’s still part of his routine.
Phone on the nightstand. Brightness low. Volume barely there.
He puts it on and turns onto his side, eyes already heavy as the familiar sounds start.
Chop.
Scrape.
Clink.
Tonight’s video was posted just this morning and is a tiny lasagna.
He watches the hands carefully layer noodles into a pan the size of a quarter, movements patient and precise.
Halfway through, the camera angle shifts slightly as the cook reaches across the counter.
The tiny pan clinks softly against the stove.
The knife resumes its steady rhythm.
And before the cheese ever goes on top, Eddie is asleep.
They’re in the middle of restocking the truck after a call, late afternoon light pouring through the bay doors, when Eddie notices something strange.
Not strange in the peculiar sense, but just something odd enough to catch his attention.
Buck was across from him, elbow deep in a supply bin, muttering as he counted gauze packs.
“Six, seven, eight— why do we only have eight? We’re supposed to have ten.”
Eddie reaches past him to grab the clipboard.
That’s when he saw it.
Buck’s hand.
His thumb, wrapped in a bright pink Hello Kitty bandaid.
Eddie blinks.
His gaze lingers a second too long.
Buck notices.
“What?” he asks.
Eddie nods at his hand. “Why do you have that?”
Buck looks down at it like he forgot it was there, then laughs.
“Oh my god, I knew someone was gonna say something.”
He wiggles his thumb. “I was at Maddie’s last night and cut myself opening a stupid package. Jee’s in a doctor phase right now, so she absolutely insisted on fixing it.”
Eddie raises an eyebrow.
Buck grins. “She wouldn’t let me leave the kitchen until she bandaged me up. Very serious about it. She even kissed it better.”
Eddie huffs. “That explains Hello Kitty.”
He doesn’t know why it even rubbed him as strange in the first place, it’s Buck.
“Oh, she tried to put them everywhere,” Buck says. “Every finger. My wrist. She wanted to wrap my entire hand. I barely escaped with just the one.”
Eddie shakes his head, amused despite himself. “You let a toddler supervise your medical care.”
“She’s very authoritative,” Buck says solemnly. “I respect the credentials.”
Eddie snorts and looks back down at the clipboard.
Buck goes back to counting supplies like nothing’s wrong.
Eddie smiles without Buck seeing and looks away.
“Hey,” Chim calls from across the bay. “Diaz. Any updates on your culinary genius rat?”
Eddie looks up immediately. “Actually, yes.”
Buck stills again.
Hen perks up. Ravi looks invested. Even Bobby glances over from his paperwork.
“I’m setting a trap tonight,” Eddie says.
Buck coughs.
“A trap?” Ravi asks, intrigued.
“Non-lethal,” Eddie clarifies. “I just want proof. I’m thinking flour on the counter. Light dusting. If it walks across, it’ll leave prints.”
Chim grins. “You’re flour-bombing your own kitchen?”
“It’s controlled,” Eddie says defensively. “And I’m leaving bait.”
Buck swallows. “Bait.”
“Strawberry,” Eddie says. “Maybe bread. Something it’s already shown interest in.”
Hen crosses her arms. “You realize if nothing shows up, this might mean you’re imagining it.”
“I’m not imagining it,” Eddie insists. “Something cut my bread.”
Buck can’t help himself. “Still can’t get over that part.”
Eddie points at him again. “Exactly.”
Bobby leans back in his chair. “Let us know what you find.”
“Oh, I will,” Eddie says darkly. “If this thing wants to play games, that’s fine.”
Buck stares at him.
Play games?
He’s not playing games.
He’s making tiny soup.
Which, suddenly, feels a lot more criminal than it did this morning.
Buck has been coming over for dinner for years.
Long before the lawsuit.
Long before TinyKitchenTuesdays.
Long before flour traps and strawberries-as-bait.
It’s routine.
He shows up. Eddie pretends he didn’t make extra. Christopher steals something off Buck’s plate. They argue about whatever show they’re watching. Buck leaves late.
That part isn’t new.
What’s new is the quiet undercurrent he can’t quite name.
He lets himself in like he always does.
“Kitchen,” Eddie calls, like he always does.
Christopher’s at the table, half-finished homework spread out all around.
“You’re late,” Chris says, not looking up.
“It’s six minutes.”
“It’s eight.”
Buck drops into his usual chair. “You running surveillance now?”
“Learned from the best,” Chris says dryly, tilting his head toward his dad.
Eddie scoffs from the stove. “I don’t surveil.”
Buck and Chris exchange a look.
Sure.
Dinner is easy.
It always is.
Pasta. Garlic bread. Salad.
Christopher talks about a group project. Buck chimes in. Eddie listens in that quiet, attentive way he always does; elbows on the table, chin tipped slightly down, fully present.
It’s comfortable.
Familiar.
The bread sits untouched in the center of the table.
Buck doesn’t think about it.
He doesn’t come here to take things.
He never has.
The borrowing had started years ago. After dinner, when Eddie would step away and Buck would notice something small left out. A strawberry too soft to last another day. Half a carrot drying at the edge of the cutting board.
The first time he’d taken one, he’d told himself he’d replace it the next day.
He hadn’t.
The second time, he’d told himself that was it.
Every time since then, he’s meant it.
He’s never walked into this house with the intention of stealing.
It’s always been after. Quiet. Small. Harmless.
Until it didn’t feel harmless anymore.
“So,” Eddie says casually, tearing off a piece of garlic bread, “I’m setting a flour trap tonight.”
Buck looks up.
“Still committed to the rat?” he asks.
Christopher grins. “Dad thinks it’s mocking him.”
“It is mocking me,” Eddie says flatly.
Buck huffs a laugh.
It shouldn’t feel like a countdown.
But it does.
Dinner winds down. Plates get stacked. Christopher bumps Buck’s shoulder on the way past him toward the sink — casual, thoughtless contact that’s been happening for years.
None of this is new.
They move to the couch.
Christopher stretches out along one side, socked feet knocking against Buck’s thigh without apology.
Buck sits where he always does.
Close to Eddie.
Not touching at first.
Then touching without noticing.
The movie starts.
Christopher makes commentary. Buck laughs. Eddie rolls his eyes.
Somewhere between the second act and the third, Christopher goes quiet.
Still awake.
Just scrolling absently, attention split.
Buck’s aware of the shift in the room.
Not because it’s unfamiliar.
But because it feels heavier lately.
Intentional.
There’s a steadiness between him and Eddie that didn’t used to hum this loud.
Their shoulders brush when Buck leans back.
Neither of them moves.
That’s new.
Or maybe it isn’t.
Maybe it’s just the first time Buck’s letting himself feel it.
Christopher eventually stands, stretching.
“I’m going to bed,” he says. Then, after a pause, “Try not to let the rat win.”
Eddie rolls his eyes. “Goodnight, Chris.”
“Night,” Buck echoes.
The house settles after Christopher disappears down the hall.
It’s quiet.
Not awkward.
Just still.
Buck’s been here in this exact spot a hundred times.
But lately, when it’s just the two of them, something in his chest tightens in a way that feels new.
“You’re thinking,” Eddie says softly.
Buck huffs. “You always know.”
“You get this crease,” Eddie replies, gesturing vaguely toward Buck’s forehead.
Buck rubs at it like that’ll erase the tell and huffs out a breath.
He doesn’t mean to say what he does next.
But it slips out anyway.
“You ever worry about messing up a good thing?”
Eddie turns his head slightly, thoughtfully.
“That’s vague. I guess it depends. What kind of good thing?”
Buck stares at the dark TV screen.
He has been wanting to tell him for a while now.
About the channel.
About how it started during the lawsuit when he wasn’t sure who he was without the job.
About how the videos gave him something to build when everything else felt paused.
About how the borrowing started small and stupid and he kept convincing himself each time was the last.
He doesn’t want Eddie to think he’s been using him.
He doesn’t want to attach something sneaky and immature to something that’s grown into… whatever this is.
And maybe the real truth—
Maybe he’s scared that if he introduces that lonely, scrambling version of himself into this space, it’ll change how Eddie looks at him.
This feels steady.
Finally steady.
He doesn’t want to tilt it.
Eddie waits.
Open.
Patient.
Buck forces a small smile and changes the subject.
“I was just thinking,” he says lightly, “that if you’re really doing this flour thing, you’re gonna need precision.”
Eddie’s eyebrow lifts. “Precision?”
“Yeah. You can’t just dump it everywhere. You need clean coverage.”
A beat.
Then Eddie’s mouth twitches.
“Are you critiquing my rat trap?”
“I’m offering input.”
Eddie stands, grabbing the bag of flour from the pantry. “Fine. Come on, then. Show me, Einstein.”
Buck follows him into the kitchen.
This is how it always happens.
Movement. Shared space. Elbows brushing at the counter.
Eddie pours a not small amount of flour onto the countertop.
Too much.
Buck winces. “Okay, that’s overkill.”
“You said precision.”
“Yeah precision, not a snowstorm.”
Buck reaches for the bag before he can stop himself.
Their fingers brush.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
He carefully sweeps the flour off the counter into his palm hovering over the bag. Next, he pinches some of the flour between his fingers and sprinkles a thinner line across the edge of the counter.
“Light dusting,” he murmurs. “You want clear prints.”
Eddie watches him instead of the flour.
“You’ve thought about this,” he says.
Buck’s stomach flips.
“I’ve just— watched a lot of true crime,” he deflects.
Eddie hums like he doesn’t fully buy it.
“Yeah, cause I’m sure they lay tons of flour traps in true crime,” he snarks, but ultimately lets go.
Together, they spread a thin layer across the counter. Not messy. Just enough.
Eddie sets a strawberry in the center.
Buck stares at it.
The bait.
The line he keeps telling himself he won’t cross again.
“This feels excessive,” Buck says quietly.
“It cut my bread,” Eddie replies.
Buck smiles faintly.
When they’re done, they step back to assess it.
It’s neat. Intentional. Slightly ridiculous.
Eddie bumps his shoulder lightly against Buck’s.
“Thanks,” he says.
“For what?”
“For helping.”
Buck looks at the flour, at the strawberry, at the clean white surface that will absolutely betray him if he touches it.
Then at Eddie.
At the way he’s standing close enough to brush shoulders without thinking about it.
At the trust in his eyes.
“Yeah,” Buck says softly. “Anytime.”
And he means that, too.
That’s the problem.
Eddie wakes up the next morning certain he’s about to prove something.
Not in a big, dramatic way.
Just— enough.
Enough to confirm that he’s not imagining things. Enough to justify the fact that he stood in his kitchen last night carefully sprinkling flour across his own counter like that was a normal, reasonable thing to do.
He doesn’t rush.
That would be ridiculous.
He gets up. Brushes his teeth. Starts the coffee.
He doesn’t look at the counter.
Not yet.
Because if he looks too soon, it counts as caring.
And he does not care.
This is just due diligence, if you will.
The coffee starts dripping into the pot.
Eddie leans against the counter, arms crossed, staring very deliberately at literally anything else.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Okay, that’s enough time for plausible deniability.
He pushes off the counter.
Walks the three steps over.
Looks.
Nothing.
The flour is exactly the same.
Smooth. Undisturbed. Not a single mark.
The strawberry is still sitting right in the middle of it.
Mocking him.
Eddie just stares at it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He leans in slightly, like maybe his eyes are just missing something.
They aren’t.
No prints.
No disturbance.
No missing bait.
Nothing.
He straightens slowly.
“Well,” he mutters, “that’s not helpful.”
Behind him, there’s the soft creak of a door.
Christopher shuffles into the kitchen, hair a mess, still half asleep.
He stops when he sees Eddie hovering over the counter scowling at its contents.
“…what are you doing?”
Eddie gestures at it wildly.
“The trap!”
Christopher squints, analyzing what he was supposed to be seeing.
“…did something happen?”
“No.”
They both look at the counter again.
The flour.
The strawberry.
The complete lack of anything.
Christopher blinks.
“So the rat didn’t come?”
Eddie crosses his arms.
“Or,” he says slowly, “it saw it.”
Christopher turns his head.
“Dad.”
“I’m just saying—”
“It’s a rat.”
“It cut my bread.”
Christopher sighs and moves past him to grab said bread.
“You know rats are really smart,” he says casually, popping two slices into the toaster. “They can recognize patterns.”
Eddie hums, considering,“That would explain it.”
Christopher pauses.
“…I was kidding.”
Eddie doesn’t respond.
Instead, he pulls his phone out.
Christopher watches him out of the corner of his eye for a second. Before opting to turn back to his toast which has just popped.
“Who are you texting?”
“Buck.”
Christopher’s mouth twitches, just barely.
“Of course you are.”
Eddie ignores that too.
Across the city, Buck’s phone buzzes.
He groans, rolling over and blindly grabbing for it, eyes barely open.
The screen lights up, blinding him momentarily.
Eddie: Trap didn’t work.
Buck: what??? no way!!!!
Eddie: Nothing touched it.
Buck: maybe it didn’t just didn’t come out last night?? or its gone entirely!!
Eddie: Or it knows I’m onto it.
Eddie:I think I need better equipment.
Eddie: Going to the hardware store later.
Eddie: Come with me?
Buck: yeah!! sure of course
Eddie: Good.
Eddie: This thing is getting interesting.
Buck lets out a long breath, staring up at his ceiling.
He didn’t even take anything.
And somehow, that made it worse.
The hardware store smells like sawdust and rubber and something vaguely chemical that Eddie has decided means competence.
Buck is already regretting everything.
“This is excessive,” he says, trailing after Eddie’s cart.
Eddie doesn’t even look at him. “It’s preventative.”
“You’re buying three different traps.”
“They serve different purposes.”
Buck stops walking.
“Different—” he gestures vaguely at the cart, “—what purposes could you possibly need for one rat?”
Eddie finally turns, completely serious.
“We don’t know it’s just one.”
Buck stares at him.
“…you think there’s a team?”
“I’m saying we don’t have enough information yet.”
Buck drags a hand down his face.
“This has gotten out of control.”
Eddie turns back to the shelf, scanning labels. “You’re the one who said I needed precision.”
“I said a light dusting of flour, not—” Buck picks up a box from the cart, reading it. “—industrial-grade containment.”
Eddie reaches over and takes it from him, putting it back.
“That one’s too bulky.”
“Too—” Buck blinks. “You’re worried about bulk?”
“It won’t fit under the counter.”
Buck laughs, sharp and disbelieving.
“Okay, no. No, we’re not doing this. You don’t need something that ‘fits under the counter,’ you need to accept that maybe—” he lowers his voice slightly, “—this isn’t a thing.”
Eddie straightens.
“It is a thing.”
“Eddie—”
“It cut my bread.”
Buck exhales hard.
“You keep saying that like you're Perry Mason presenting a piece of evidence.”
“It is evidence.”
“It’s not good evidence.”
Eddie crosses his arms.
“You helped me set the trap.”
“Yeah, because you already had flour everywhere!”
“And now we’re following through.”
“With what? A full-scale operation?”
Eddie gestures at the aisle around them.
“Yes.”
Buck looks around.
There are at least six different kinds of traps.
There are diagrams.
There are warning labels.
There is, inexplicably, something that looks like it belongs in a cartoon.
Buck picks it up.
“This one has a door.”
Eddie glances at it. “That’s a live trap.”
“You’re telling me we’re now at the stage where you’re planning to capture it?”
“I want proof.”
“You had flour.”
“I had no results.”
Buck sets the trap back down with more force than necessary.
“Or,” he says, trying very hard to sound reasonable, “you could just let it go.”
Eddie looks at him.
Really looks at him.
“Why do you keep saying that?”
Buck freezes for half a second.
Too long.
“I don’t,” he says, immediately.
“You do.”
“I just think maybe—” Buck gestures vaguely, “—you’re overthinking it.”
Eddie’s eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re the one who said it might be smart.”
“I said it might not exist.”
“You said both.”
“That was before you went all Criminal Minds and started building a profile!”
“I’m not building a profile.”
“You said it was cautious.”
“It is cautious.”
Buck makes a helpless noise.
“You don’t know that!”
Eddie steps closer without thinking about it.
Close enough that Buck has to tilt his head slightly to keep eye contact.
“I do know that something is taking food out of my kitchen,” he says, quieter now. “And I’m not imagining it.”
Buck’s stomach twists.
“I didn’t say you were,” he says, softer.
There’s a beat.
Something in the space between them settles—just for a second—before Eddie exhales and steps back, breaking it.
“Look,” he says, grabbing another box and dropping it into the cart, “worst case scenario, I buy a few traps I don’t end up needing.”
“That’s not the worst case scenario,” Buck mutters.
Eddie ignores that.
“And best case,” he continues, “I figure out what’s been going on.”
Buck huffs out a laugh.
“Yeah. Best case.”
Eddie nudges the cart forward.
Buck falls into step beside him, eyeing the growing pile of supplies like it might multiply if he looks away for too long.
“You’re getting bait too, aren’t you?” Buck sighs.
“Obviously.”
Buck tips his head back toward the ceiling.
“Unbelievable.”
They turn down another aisle. Eddie slows, scanning the shelves, then reaches for a different box—this one smaller, heavier.
Buck leans over to read it.
Then he freezes.
“Eddie, no.”
Eddie doesn’t look at him. “It’s just in case.”
“Eddie.”
“It’s not my first choice.”
Buck picks the box up out of the cart before Eddie can stop him.
“This is poison.”
Eddie finally glances at him. “Yeah. And?”
“You’re buying rat poison.”
“I said it’s a backup.”
Buck stares at him.
“You said it cut your bread, not declared war.”
Eddie exhales, already a little defensive. “Alright! Look, I don’t want to kill it.”
“Great,” Buck says. “Love that. Let’s stick with that.”
“But if it keeps getting into the food—”
“It took a strawberry!”
“And a carrot.”
“No, it shaved a carrot,” Buck corrects, like that somehow helps.
Eddie gestures at him. “Exactly. That’s not normal.”
Buck makes a helpless noise.
“It’s a rat, Eddie! None of it is normal!”
Eddie crosses his arms slightly, jaw tightening just a bit.
“I have Christopher in that house.”
And…
yeah.
That lands its mark.
Buck’s grip on the box loosens.
“I know,” he says, quieter.
“I’m not going to let something run around in the kitchen, getting into food, maybe carrying god knows what—” Eddie exhales. “I’m just not.”
Buck looks at the box in his hands.
At the word poison printed in neon yellow colors across the front.
Then back at Eddie.
“…okay, but we are starting with the not killing it part,” he says.
Eddie huffs. “Fine.”
“And maybe we stay there.”
Eddie gives him a look. “We’ll see.”
Buck immediately shakes his head, setting the box back on the shelf, firmly this time.
“No, absolutely not ‘we’ll see.’”
Eddie reaches past him and drops it right back into the cart.
Buck stares at it like it personally betrayed him.
“Eddie—”
“It’s a backup.”
“You cannot have murder as a backup plan. At the very least wait to see how the other ones go first.”
“It’s pest control and I want to be prepared.”
“It’s my—” Buck cuts himself off so fast it almost gives him whiplash.
Eddie’s head tilts. “Your what?”
Buck blinks.
Recovers.
“My point,” he says quickly. “It’s my point. My point is that this is an overreaction.”
Eddie watches him for a second longer than necessary.
Then—
“…you’re being weird about this.”
Buck laughs, too quick. “I’m not being weird. You’re being intense.”
“You’re the one arguing with me about a rat.”
“You’re the one trying to kill it!”
“I said maybe.”
“That’s worse!”
Eddie’s mouth twitches, just barely.
“Noted.”
Buck exhales, dragging a hand down his face again.
“This has gotten out of control.”
“And yet,” Eddie says, nudging the cart forward again, “you’re still here.”
Buck falls into step beside him.
Opens his mouth.
Closes it.
“…that’s not the point.”
Eddie doesn’t answer, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
Buck notices.
And, annoyingly it takes some of the fight out of him.
The call itself is nothing major.
Small kitchen fire. A girl tried to make a rice cup in the microwave, but didn't add enough water. A concerned neighbor called. By the time they get there, it’s mostly smoke and a very apologetic woman hovering near the sink while Bobby and Hen check everything over.
“Ma’am, we’re just going to make sure it’s fully out, okay?” Bobby says.
“Yes! yes, of course, I’m so sorry, I just got distracted. I'm Meagan,” she says, wringing her hands. “I was trying something new.”
Chim peers into the pan. “Yeah, we can see that. Nice to meet you, Meagan.”
"You too! Though I do wish it were under different circumstances."
Ravi’s opening windows. Buck’s doing a quick scan of the space when he sees it.
On the counter.
A tiny pan.
A tiny cutting board.
Tiny utensils.
Buck stops.
Oh no.
No, no, no, no—
“Hey, uh,” Ravi says, pointing, “is that, like… stuff for a dollhouse?”
The Meagan follows his gaze and immediately brightens.
“Oh, yeah! Sorry, that’s— I was trying to recreate something.”
Buck very carefully does not react.
Chim leans in. “Recreate what?”
“There’s this YouTube channel? TinyKitchenTuesdays?” she says, already smiling. “I’m kind of obsessed with it.”
Buck’s soul leaves his body.
He turns. Immediately. Pretends to be very interested in absolutely nothing on the other side of the kitchen.
“Obsessed how?” Hen asks.
“Like, I watch it every night,” Meagan says. “It’s so calming. The tiny food, the sounds, and those strong veiny hands— I fall asleep in, like, five minutes.”
Buck makes a small, strangled noise.
No one notices.
“People fall asleep to that?” Chim asks.
“Millions of people,” she says. “That channel is huge.”
“How huge?” Ravi asks.
“Last I checked? Like six million subscribers,” she says. “And the views are insane.”
Buck coughs.
Hard.
Hen glances at him. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Buck says quickly. “You know, there’s still some smoke?”
Across the room, Eddie goes still.
“…yeah,” he says.
Everyone turns.
Buck freezes.
Eddie shrugs, like this is normal, like he didn’t just say something that has completely altered the trajectory of Buck’s life.
“I watch it,” he says.
Buck’s head snaps toward him so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t pull something.
“You what?” Chim says.
Eddie looks mildly confused by the reaction. “What?”
“You watch tiny cooking videos?” Hen asks.
Eddie shrugs again, already turning back to the counter like it’s not a big deal. “Helps me sleep.”
Buck is going to pass out.
“Since when?” Ravi asks.
Eddie hesitates, just slightly.
Then, quieter, “Since a little while after I got back.”
The room shifts, just a little.
Not heavy.
Just… the depth of Eddie’s quiet admittal.
Buck feels it.
He doesn’t look at Eddie.
Doesn’t trust himself to.
Meagan nods immediately. “Yeah, that makes sense. It’s really soothing.”
Chim, because he cannot let anything sit for too long, grins.
“So what, you just put on tiny lasagna and knock out?”
Eddie huffs. “Pretty much.”
Buck makes another strangled noise.
Hen eyes Eddie. “You’ve never mentioned this.”
Eddie shrugs. “Didn’t think it was relevant.”
Buck chokes on air.
Relevant.
Ravi looks impressed. “That’s kind of cool, actually.”
“Right?” Meagan says. “It’s like— there’s no talking, no music, just the sounds. It’s super relaxing.”
Buck is staring at the wall contemplating leaving a cartoon-esque hole in it in the shape of him.
Eddie, apparently not done, adds, “Christopher watches it too sometimes.”
Buck closes his eyes.
Of course he does.
“Wait,” Chim says, “this is a whole Diaz household thing?”
“It’s not a thing,” Eddie says.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Chim insists.
“It’s not a thing.”
“You’re both falling asleep to the same tiny chef,” Hen says. “That’s a thing.”
Buck makes a noise that might actually be a whimper.
No one comments on it.
Ravi tilts his head. “Do they have merch?”
Buck’s eyes snap open.
No.
Absolutely not.
Buck didn’t even want merch.
He only started selling because people were begging for it. He doesn’t even keep the money! He donates all the proceeds to local food pantries and women’s shelters.
Eddie considers it.
Buck stops breathing.
“I think so,” Eddie says.
Buck physically recoils.
“Have you thought about it?” Chim asks, delighted.
Eddie shrugs, a little defensive now. “Christopher mentioned it.”
Buck puts a hand over his face.
“Oh my god,” he mutters.
Hen catches that. “What?”
“Nothing,” Buck says quickly. “Nothing. Just— you’re gonna buy merch? For a tiny cooking channel?”
Eddie looks at him.
There’s something almost challenging in it.
“Maybe,” he says.
Buck drops his hand.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” Buck gestures wildly. “Because it’s tiny food!”
“And?”
“And you don’t need a shirt about it!”
Chim snorts.
“Oh, I would absolutely buy that,” he says.
Ravi nods. “Same.”
“Thank you,” Eddie says, like this proves his point.
Bobby shakes his head chuckling, “I would’ve thought that this would be the kind of thing you’d be all into, Buck?”
Buck stares at all of them.
Traitors.
All of them.
Meagan laughs. “Honestly, the merch is cute.”
Buck looks like he might walk directly into traffic.
Eddie glances at him again.
“You okay?” he asks.
Buck straightens immediately. “Yeah. Great. Love this.”
Hen’s eyes narrow slightly.
But before she can say anything he gets interrupted.
“Oh! Speaking of—” the woman says, perking up. “You guys want to see something?”
Buck has a terrible feeling about this.
This entire day has gone to hell and a handbasket.
She disappears down the hallway and comes back holding
a rat.
A real, honest to God, rat.
Buck freezes. This feels like his penance.
“This is Strusel,” she says proudly.
Strusel twitches her nose.
Buck stares at her like he’s looking at a loaded weapon.
Chim lights up. “No way, you have a rat?”
“She’s a pet,” the woman says. “Super clean, super friendly. Not like wild ones.”
Eddie steps closer, curious. “You keep her here?”
“Yeah, she’s great,” the woman says. “Honestly smarter than most people.”
“Really?” Eddie asks with a small smirk pulling on his lips, “Because I’ve been having a bit of a wild rat problem in my home and everyone else seems to be doubting the intelligence of what I’m up against.”
Strusel squeaks softly.
Buck flinches.
Hard.
Eddie notices.
“…you sure you’re okay?” he asks.
Buck tears his eyes away from the rat.
“Yep,” he says, way too fast. “Totally fine.”
Strusel stares at him.
Buck stares back.
And for one deeply unfortunate moment it feels personal.
By the time they get back to the station, it should be over.
It isn’t.
It absolutely is not.
“Pull it up.”
Buck freezes halfway through grabbing a water bottle.
“…what?”
Chim is already leaning over Ravi’s shoulder. “The tiny cooking thing. Pull it up.”
“Oh yeah,” Ravi says, unlocking his phone. “I wanna see this.”
Buck’s stomach drops.
“No,” he says immediately.
Too fast.
Too loud.
Everyone pauses.
Hen looks at him.
“…why not?”
Buck blinks.
Recovers.
Shrugs.
“I just— I don’t get it,” he says. “It’s tiny food. How interesting can it be?”
Eddie, from the couch, doesn’t even look up.
“More interesting than whatever you’re doing right now,” he says.
Buck glares at the back of his head.
Ravi grins. “Found it.”
No.
Absolutely not.
Buck takes a step forward. “Ravi, man, you don’t have to—”
Too late.
The video starts playing.
Silence fills the loft.
Then— chop. Chop. chop.
The soft, precise sound of a knife against wood.
Buck goes still.
Oh, this is a nightmare.
On the screen: a tiny cutting board. Tiny vegetables. Careful hands moving with slow, deliberate precision.
Buck knows this video.
He filmed it last Tuesday.
Chim leans in. “Oh, this is kinda satisfying.”
Hen nods slightly. “Yeah, I see it.”
Ravi looks fascinated. “How is he even cutting that?”
Buck crosses his arms.
“Very carefully,” he mutters.
Eddie shifts on the couch, settling in like he’s done this a hundred times.
Because he has.
Buck cannot look at him.
On the screen, the knife slices cleanly through a miniature carrot.
Buck’s carrot.
From Eddie’s kitchen.
Buck closes his eyes briefly.
This is karmic punishment.
“Look at that,” Chim says. “That’s steady.”
Hen tilts her head. “He’s got good technique.”
Buck makes a small, wounded noise.
Ravi glances back at him. “You sure you don’t like this?”
Buck forces a laugh. “No, yeah, it’s great. Love watching a guy cook things I can’t even eat.”
On the couch, Eddie huffs.
“It’s not about eating it.”
Buck finally looks at him.
“And what’s it about, exactly?”
Eddie gestures vaguely at the screen. “It’s just… calming.”
Buck stares at him.
Because yeah.
He knows.
He made it that way.
He looks back at the screen.
The tiny pan. The careful movements. The quiet.
It hits different, watching it like this.
Through Eddie.
Which is—
Not something he’s going to unpack right now.
“Okay but how long does this go on for?” Chim asks.
“Ten minutes,” Ravi says.
“Ten minutes of this?” Chim sounds impressed.
“People loop them,” Eddie says.
Buck chokes.
“Loop them?” he echoes.
Eddie shrugs. “Sometimes.”
Hen raises an eyebrow. “You loop them?”
Eddie doesn’t answer.
Which is answer enough.
Buck looks at him like he’s just been personally attacked.
On the screen, Buck’s hands reach forward and the camera shifts slightly.
And there it is.
The bandaid.
Bright pink.
Hello Kitty.
Buck’s soul leaves his body for the second time today.
“Oh my god,” Ravi says. “That’s kinda cute.”
Chim snorts. “What happened there, you think?”
Hen smirks. “Occupational hazard?”
Buck very carefully does not react.
He does not move.
He does not breathe.
Buck is one with the couch.
Across the room, Eddie is watching the screen.
Really watching it.
Noticing.
Buck sees the exact moment it clicks.
Not fully.
Not enough.
But something.
Eddie’s eyes narrow slightly.
His head tilts.
Just a fraction.
His mouth opens to start to say something.
Buck’s stomach drops.
Say something.
Distract him.
“Probably has a kid,” Buck blurts.
Everyone looks at him.
Buck gestures vaguely at the screen. “The bandaid. Kids love those things.”
A beat.
Then—
“…huh,” Eddie says.
Still looking at the screen.
Buck exhales, just a little.
Crisis averted.
Maybe.
On the screen, the tiny pan clinks softly.
The steady rhythm continues.
Chop.
Scrape.
Clink.
Ravi lowers the volume slightly.
Chim leans back.
Hen relaxes into the couch.
And, somehow…
The room settles.
Quiet.
Easy.
Buck glances over again.
Eddie’s head is tipped slightly to the side.
Eyes half-lidded.
Relaxed.
Like this.
This right here is familiar.
Is safe.
Buck watches him for a second too long.
Then looks away.
On the screen, the video continues.
In the room, Eddie shifts and comes over sit sit next to Buck, just slightly closer on the couch than is really appropriate.
Doesn’t say anything.
Doesn’t need to.
Buck stays where he is.
Doesn’t move away.
Doesn’t need to.
And somewhere in the background
Buck is still cooking.
Buck is not expecting company.
Which is exactly why the knock on his door at nine-thirty at night immediately sets him on edge.
He freezes mid-step, staring at the door.
The knock comes again.
“Buck,” Eddie calls. “I know you’re home.”
Of course he does.
Buck exhales and goes to open it—quick, thoughtless.
Which is the problem.
Because he doesn’t look back at the kitchen.
Doesn’t notice—
The setup.
Still out.
Still obvious.
Still incriminating.
He just opens the door.
Eddie’s standing there holding a plastic container.
“…what’s that,” Buck asks.
“Backup bait,” Eddie says, like that’s a normal thing to say.
Buck stares at it. “Eddie.”
“It’s cheese.”
“That’s worse.”
Eddie just shrugs and walks past him into the loft.
“Strawberry didn’t work, and neither did the bait we bought the other day,” he says. “Trying something different tonight.”
Buck shuts the door slowly.
His brain catches up.
Oh.
Oh no.
“Eddie—”
Too late.
Eddie rounds the corner into the kitchen.
Stops.
Buck watches it happen.
The exact second everything goes still.
Eddie doesn’t say anything.
He just—
Looks.
At the table.
At the tiny kitchen.
At the carefully arranged setup sitting in plain sight like Buck has never made a bad decision in his life.
Then—
At Buck.
Then back at the table.
“…what is that.”
Buck opens his mouth.
Closes it.
“…it’s—”
There is no version of this that works.
Eddie walks closer.
Slow.
Suspicious.
He reaches out, picks up one of the tiny utensils, turns it between his fingers—
Sets it down.
Another beat.
Then—
A soft, disbelieving huff of laughter.
Buck winces.
Oh no.
“Oh my—” Eddie cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hold it in.
He fails.
A laugh slips out anyway.
Not amused.
Not really.
Just— what is happening.
“Buck,” he says, shaking his head.
Buck points at him. “Don’t.”
Eddie looks back at the setup.
At the tiny pans.
The shoebox.
The ingredients.
And then it hits.
Fully.
All at once.
The bread.
The carrot.
The flour.
The strawberry.
The bandaid.
Eddie goes very still.
Then—
“You’re kidding.”
Buck laughs weakly. “I wish I was.”
A beat.
Eddie looks at him.
Then back at the setup.
Then back at him again.
And then—
He starts laughing.
Actually laughing now.
Full, disbelieving, can’t quite stop.
Buck groans. “Okay, great, love this reaction—”
“You—” Eddie points at the table, then at Buck, like he can’t decide which part is more ridiculous. “You’re the—”
He laughs again, shaking his head.
“You’re the rat.”
Buck groans, dragging both hands down his face. “Okay, in my defense—”
“No—no, hold on—” Eddie steps back, still laughing, one hand braced on the counter. “You have been in my kitchen—”
“Borrowing—”
“Stealing,” Eddie corrects immediately.
“Borrowing!”
“For years—” Eddie continues, incredulous, “taking microscopic amounts of food— cutting shapes out of my bread—”
“It was one time!”
“It was not one time!”
Buck points at him. “Okay, but you saying it like that—”
“I thought I had a rat,” Eddie says, laughing again, like it keeps hitting him in waves.
“I know.”
“I set traps.”
“I know.”
“I bought poison.”
“That was excessive!”
Eddie doubles over slightly, laughing. “Oh my god.”
Buck gestures wildly. “You escalated so fast!”
“You were acting suspicious!”
“Because you were threatening to kill me!”
“I didn’t know it was you!”
“Well, yeah, obviously!”
Eddie straightens, wiping at his eyes, still smiling as he looks back at the setup.
And then—
The shift.
His gaze sharpens.
Connecting pieces.
“…you’re the channel,” he says.
Buck freezes.
“…yeah.”
“You’re TinyKitchenTuesdays.”
Buck winces. “Yeah.”
Eddie exhales, a quiet, incredulous laugh slipping out again.
“I fall asleep to you.”
Buck groans. “I know, you’ve mentioned that, thank you.”
“Every night.”
“Great.”
“Christopher too.”
“Even better.”
Eddie shakes his head, looking at the tiny kitchen again.
“You made the chicken noodle soup this morning.”
“…yeah.”
“I watched that.”
“I know.”
“You had that bandaid on.”
Buck squeezes his eyes shut. “Yep.”
“You stood in front of me at work,” Eddie continues, pointing, “with the same bandaid.”
“In my defense—”
“There is no defense,” Eddie says immediately, but he’s still smiling.
Still amazed.
A beat passes.
Then Eddie gestures at everything.
“All of this,” he says, “the channel, the rat, you stealing from my kitchen—”
“Borrowing—”
“—I have been losing my mind over this for weeks.”
Buck huffs. “I didn’t think it would escalate like that.”
“You helped me build the trap.”
“I had to commit to the bit!”
Eddie laughs again, softer now.
“Unbelievable.”
Silence settles.
Not tense.
Just… full.
Eddie looks at him.
Really looks at him.
“…you could’ve just asked,” he says.
Buck nods, quieter. “…yeah.”
“I wouldn’t have cared.”
“I know.”
A beat.
Then Buck adds, softer, “I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
Eddie frowns slightly. “Why would I?”
“Because it’s weird,” Buck cuts in. “And it started when I wasn’t— I don’t know. I didn’t want that to be the version of me you saw.”
Eddie’s expression softens.
He glances at the tiny kitchen again.
Then back at Buck.
And he huffs out another quiet laugh, like he can’t quite help it.
“You’re unbelievable,” he says.
Buck groans. “I’m getting that a lot tonight.”
“No, I mean it,” Eddie says, still half smiling. “You break into my kitchen, steal my food, secretly run a massive YouTube channel—”
“Borrow—”
“—and somehow,” Eddie continues, voice catching just slightly, “I’m still—”
He stops.
Just for a second.
Like he didn’t mean to get that far.
Buck stills.
Eddie exhales, dragging a hand down his face.
“…wow,” he mutters. “Okay.”
Buck’s heart is suddenly in his throat.
“Eddie?”
Eddie lets out a short, disbelieving huff.
Then looks at him.
No deflection this time.
No joke.
“I’m still in love with you,” he says.
Silence.
Buck blinks, “What?”
Eddie winces, just slightly.
“Yeah,” he says. “That came out wrong.”
Buck just stares at him.
“You’re— what?”
Eddie exhales again, shoulders dropping like there’s no point taking it back now.
“I’m in love with you,” he says, simpler this time.
A beat.
Then, a little wry
“Have been. For a while.”
Buck takes a step closer without meaning to.
“…how long?”
Eddie huffs a quiet laugh.
“Long enough that I didn’t question why I was setting elaborate traps just to keep you coming over.”
Buck lets out a startled, breathless laugh.
“…that was”
“Yeah.”
“—on purpose?”
Eddie shrugs. “Not at first.”
A beat.
“Then you kept showing up.”
Buck’s chest feels tight.
Full.
“Eddie—”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Eddie admits. “We had… this.” He gestures between them. “And I didn’t want to screw it up.”
Buck huffs out a disbelieving breath.
“That’s literally what I just said.”
“Yeah,” Eddie says softly. “Guess we’re both idiots.”
A beat.
They’re close now.
Really close.
Buck searches his face.
“You’re serious,” he says quietly.
Eddie meets his gaze.
“Yeah.”
No hesitation.
Buck lets out a shaky breath.
“Okay,” he says.
Eddie blinks. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” Buck says, stepping closer, closing the last of the space between them. “Okay.”
A beat.
Then, softer—
“Good. Because I’m in love with you too.”
Something in Eddie’s expression finally settles.
“…yeah?”
Buck nods. “Yeah.”
Another beat.
And this one—
It’s different.
Not uncertain.
Not fragile.
Just waiting.
Eddie’s gaze drops to Buck’s mouth.
Then back up.
“Buck,” he says, low.
Buck doesn’t answer.
He just leans in.
And this time—
Eddie meets him halfway.
The kiss is immediate.
Certain.
Like it’s been waiting there for a long time.
Eddie’s hand comes up to the back of Buck’s neck, pulling him closer, and Buck’s hand finds his jaw, steady and warm as the kiss deepens.
It’s warm.
A little messy.
A little breathless.
Eddie exhales against him, stepping in fully, like there’s no space left between them at all.
Like there hasn’t been for a while.
When they finally pull back, it’s only barely.
Foreheads brushing.
Breath shared.
Eddie lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.
“…you’re still a menace, by the way.”
Buck huffs, a little breathless. “You love me.”
Eddie smiles.
“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
He begins to lean back in for another kiss, already addicted to the feeling, but pulls back suddenly.
A beat.
Then..
“What are we going to do with all of those rat traps I bought?”
Buck grins looking a little sheepish.
“I’m sure we can find somewhere to use them?”
Eddie rolls his eyes, but pulls Buck back in for another kiss.
They don’t mean to make it obvious.
That’s the thing.
Buck tells himself that as they walk into the station side by side, like they always do. Except now there’s this quiet, invisible string between them that didn’t exist before.
Or maybe it always did.
Now it’s just… visible.
Eddie’s shoulder brushes his.
Buck doesn’t move.
Eddie doesn’t either.
“Okay,” Hen says immediately from the kitchen, not even looking up from her coffee, “what happened.”
Buck stops.
Eddie keeps going for half a step before realizing—and then he stops too.
“What?” Buck tries.
Hen looks up.
Takes one look at them.
Blinks twice.
“Oh,” she says, then, louder “Oh.”
Chim looks up from the table. “What ‘oh’? What does that mean?”
Hen doesn’t answer.
She just tilts her head, studying them like she’s solving sudoku..
Ravi appears at the top of the stairs like he’s been summoned. “What’s happening?”
Hen gestures between Buck and Eddie. “This.”
All three of them look.
Really look.
Buck feels his face heat. “Guys.”
Chim squints. “Why are you standing like that?”
“Like what?” Buck asks.
“Like you’re… I don’t know?” Chim gestures vaguely, frustrated. “Orbiting each other.”
Buck glances at Eddie.
Eddie glances at him.
They both, immediately, take a step apart.
Hen snorts. “That was worse.”
Ravi nods. “Yeah, that confirmed it.”
Buck drags a hand down his face. “There’s nothing to confirm.”
Eddie exhales.
Then, because apparently he has no sense of self-preservation decides he’s had enough of this.
“We’re together.”
Silence.
Buck closes his eyes.
Okay.
Great.
Cool.
Chim’s jaw drops. “I’m sorry— you’re what?”
Hen’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re serious?”
Ravi looks delighted. “Oh my god.”
Buck opens one eye, glaring at Eddie. “You couldn’t have? I don’t know? Eased into that?”
Eddie shrugs. “They were going to figure it out in thirty seconds.”
“Maybe I wanted those thirty seconds!”
Chim points between them. “Since when?”
“Last night,” Eddie says.
Buck groans. “You’re just— you’re just volunteering information now.”
“It’s called honesty.”
“It’s called oversharing!”
Hen huffs out a quiet laugh. “Well. That explains a lot.”
Bobby steps out of his office at the noise, takes one look at them and smiles.
“Glad you two figured it out,” he says.
Buck squints. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Bobby replies calmly, “you weren’t as subtle as you thought you were.”
Chim throws his hands up. “Why am I the last to know everything?!”
“Because you’re loud,” Hen says.
“I am observant!”
“You are sometimes observant,” she corrects.
Ravi raises a hand. “Okay, but congratulations,” he says, earnest. “Seriously.”
Buck blinks, a little thrown. “Thanks.”
Eddie nods. “Appreciate it.”
There’s a brief, softer pause.
And then Eddie glances at Buck.
There’s a look there.
A decision.
Buck narrows his eyes slightly. “What?”
Eddie tilts his head, just a little, almost casual.
“While we’re at it,” he says, “you might as well come completely clean.”
Buck’s stomach drops.
“Oh no,” he says immediately. “No, no, no, no no.”
Chim perks up. “Oh yes.”
Hen leans forward. “Clean about what?”
Ravi’s eyes light up. “There’s more?”
“There is not more,” Buck says quickly. “There’s actually less. If anything, we should be wrapping this up—”
“Buckley,” Eddie says, too calm.
Buck points at him. “Don’t ‘Buckley’ me.”
Eddie just looks at him.
Not pushing.
Just… waiting.
And that’s actually—
Worse.
That’s worse.
Buck exhales, long and suffering. “I hate you.”
Eddie smiles slightly. “No, you don’t.”
“No,” Buck admits. “I really don’t.”
Chim claps his hands once. “Alright enough with the sappy, spill!”
Hen nods. “Yeah, you don’t get to say that and then not elaborate.”
Ravi leans on the railing. “I’m seated.”
Buck looks around.
At all of them.
Traitors. Every single one.
He drags a hand over his face.
“…I have a YouTube channel.”
A beat.
Chim blinks. “Okay.”
Hen nods. “Sure.”
Ravi shrugs. “That tracks.”
Buck hesitates.
Eddie does not.
“He’s TinyKitchenTuesdays.”
Silence.
It lands all at once.
Ravi’s jaw drops. “No way.”
Hen straightens. “Wait—seriously?”
Chim just stares.
At Buck.
“You’re kidding.”
Buck gives a small, resigned shrug. “Hi.”
Chim recoils like he’s been personally betrayed. “I fell asleep to you last night!”
Buck winces. “I’m so sorry.”
Ravi is grinning. “Dude, that channel is huge!”
Buck rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I mean— it’s kind of—”
“Oh yeah, he’s huge,” Eddie adds.
Buck whips around. “Why did you say it like that?!”
“Because it’s impressive,” Eddie says simply.
“That’s not the point!”
Buck groans.
“Okay, but wait,” Hen says, eyes narrowing. “There’s still something else.”
Buck freezes.
Eddie, beside him, looks way too pleased.
“Oh, yeah,” Eddie says. “There is.”
Buck turns slowly. “Eddie.”
Eddie gestures lightly. “Go ahead.”
Buck stares at him.
“…you’re enjoying this.”
“A little,” Eddie admits.
Chim leans forward. “Man, really never a dull moment with you two is there?.”
Ravi is fully locked in. “There’s more?”
Buck considers his life.
His choices.
Every decision that led him here.
“I might also be the reason Eddie thought he had a rat.”
Silence.
Hen blinks. “I’m sorry?”
Ravi’s grin is immediate. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”
Chim points between them. “Explain. Now.”
Buck exhales. “I— occasionally— borrowed things from Eddie’s kitchen.”
“Tiny things,” Eddie adds.
“Very small things,” Buck agrees.
“For your videos,” Hen says slowly.
“Yes.”
Ravi’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god.”
Chim’s mouth drops open. “You were the rat? Eddie, man, there’s no way—”
“In my defense,” Eddie says, “the evidence was compelling.”
“It was not compelling!”
“You cut shapes out of my bread!”
“It was for presentation!”
“You took one of my strawberries!”
“I needed a strawberry and what kind of person notices a single one missing?”
Hen presses her lips together, failing not to laugh. “Oh my god.”
Ravi is already losing it. “Didn’t you set traps?”
Eddie nods. “Multiple.”
Buck throws his hands up. “He escalated immediately!”
“I bought poison,” Eddie adds.
Hen smacks his arm. “Eddie!”
“I didn’t use it!”
“That doesn’t make it better!”
Buck claps once and points. “Thank you!”
Chim is doubled over now. “You helped him set them up?!”
“I had to stay consistent!”
“You’re unbelievable,” Hen says, shaking her head.
Buck sighs. “I’ve heard.”
Bobby, who has been quietly taking this all in, just nods once.
“Well,” he says, calm as ever, “that certainly clears things up.”
Chim straightens, still breathless. “No, no, we are not done here—”
The alarm cuts through the room.
Sharp.
Immediate.
Everyone stills.
Then moves.
As they grab their gear, the energy shifts, but not completely.
Chim points at Buck on the way out. “We are revisiting this.”
Hen nods. “Extensively.”
Ravi grins. “I’m subscribing if I’m not already.”
“You better like and subscribe,” Eddie says.
Buck groans. “Please don’t encourage them.”
Eddie bumps his shoulder lightly as they head for the truck.
“Too late,” he says.
Buck glances at him.
“You really couldn’t let me have five minutes, huh?”
Eddie smirks. “You had years.”
Buck huffs.
But he’s smiling.
And when their hands brush quick, easy, and intentional, he doesn’t pull away.