Chapter Text
The numbers on the settlement offer blurred together. It was a staggering amount of money—more than Buck had ever seen in his life—but it felt like ashes. This wasn’t why he’d started the lawsuit. He didn't want a payout. He just wanted his family back. He wanted his spot on the truck.
The sudden buzz of his phone on the coffee table made him flinch.
Buck stared at the screen. It was long past business hours, and these days, Chase Mackey was the only person who called him. But the name flashing across the digital screen didn't belong to his lawyer.
Eddie.
His heart hammered against his ribs. A heavy mix of hope and guilt twisted in his stomach. He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen as he thought of Christopher. He couldn't not answer.
He swiped to connect, his voice tight. “Hey, Eddie. We’re not supposed to be talking—”
“I don’t care.”
Eddie’s voice cut him off, but it wasn't angry. It was terrifyingly small, stripped of all its usual gruff bravado.
“It’s Christopher,” Eddie breathed. A siren wailed faintly in the background of the call. “I’m on shift. Bobby doesn’t know I’m calling you, but we’re clearing a scene right now. Carla... Carla is taking Christopher to the hospital.”
The lawsuit paperwork slipped from Buck’s fingers, scattering across the floor. "What happened? Is he okay? Which hospital?”
There wasn’t a single second of hesitation. Buck was already on his feet, his fingers blindly hooking around his truck keys on the counter. The lawsuit, the lawyers, the anger—it all evaporated into static.
“Cedars-Sinai,” Eddie rasped. “Carla’s taking him to the pediatric ER. He collapsed. I don’t know what is going on.”
“I’m on my way. I’ll be there before you. I’ve got him, Eddie.” Buck didn’t wait for an answer; he hung up and sprinted out the door.
The drive to the hospital was a blur of red tail lights and late-night traffic, Buck's grip so tight on the steering wheel his knuckles turned white. He shouldn't be doing this. His lawyer would have a stroke if he knew Buck was inserting himself into Eddie's life right now. But Christopher was his family, too. Lawsuit be damned.
Minutes later, Buck was bursting through the sliding glass doors of the Cedars-Sinai emergency room. The sterile smell of antiseptic and the harsh fluorescent lights hit him like a wall. He practically threw his ID at the triage desk, slapping a neon pink visitor’s badge onto his chest before scanning the crowded waiting room.
He spotted her immediately. Carla was sitting in a plastic chair near the corner, her face pale, her hands trembling as she clutched Christopher’s favorite oversized hoodie in her lap.
“Carla!” Buck called out, crossing the room in three long strides.
She looked up, a massive wave of relief washing over her tired features. “Buck. Oh, thank God.” She stood up, but when Buck went to move past her toward the heavy double doors leading to the treatment bays, she gently caught his arm. “They won’t let me back there, honey. They aren’t letting me stay with him.”
Buck froze, his chest heaving. “What? Why not?”
“They’re moving him to trauma-imaging, and they’re strictly enforcing the immediate-family rule,” Carla explained, her voice cracking slightly. “But Eddie updated his medical directive last year. Only Eddie, his blood family, and you are on the paperwork as legal guardians in a crisis. You have to go back there.”
Buck felt a sharp pang in his chest. Even now, in the middle of a bitter legal battle where they weren't even allowed to speak, Eddie hadn't taken Buck's name off those forms.
“What happened, Carla?” Buck asked, his voice dropping to a low, urgent whisper. “Eddie said he collapsed.”
Carla swallowed hard, nodding. “It started yesterday. He mentioned his hands felt sleepy, like they were numb, but we thought he’d just slept on his arm wrong. Then, an hour ago, he was sitting at the kitchen table finishing his math homework. He stood up to get a glass of water and just… his legs gave out. Like someone flipped a switch and cut the power. He looked up at me, Buck, and he was crying because he couldn’t feel his toes.”
A cold dread pooled in Buck’s stomach. Spastic diplegia affected Christopher's muscles, but it shouldn't cause sudden, total numbness. This was neurological. This was his spine.
“I called the paramedics right away,” Carla continued, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. “They radioed the 118 dispatcher to notify Eddie, but his crew is stuck clearing a hazardous scene across town. He has to wait for a transport ride back to the station just to get his truck. He's miles away.”
Buck squeezed Carla’s shoulder, his expression hardening with fierce determination. “I’m going back there. I won’t leave his side until Eddie gets here.”
After getting directions from a nurse, Buck hurried down the brightly lit corridor of the pediatric ER, his heart hammering against his ribs. He found Christopher sitting in the middle of a large, sterile hospital bed, looking incredibly small under the harsh fluorescent lights. His eyes were wide and glossy with unshed tears, and his knuckles were white where he gripped the rough cotton of the hospital gown. A hospital social worker was sitting in a plastic chair next to him, trying to distract him with a colorful tablet, but Christopher wasn't paying attention.
The moment Buck stepped through the curtain, the woman stood up, her expression morphing into a professional shield. “Sir, I’m sorry, but this area is restricted to immediate—”
“I’m on his paperwork,” Buck announced, his voice firm, leaving absolutely no room for argument. “I'm Evan Buckley. I'm legal guardian.”
The social worker blinked, checking her chart, but Buck didn't wait for her approval. He crossed the room in two strides, slid onto the edge of the mattress, and gathered Christopher into his arms.
The boy let out a ragged, gasping breath. "B-Buck?"
"I'm here, Superman. I've got you," Buck murmured, burying his face in Christopher's curls.
The almost eight-year-old completely collapsed against Buck’s chest, his small frame shaking as he started softly sobbing into Buck's shirt. He clung to the fabric with trembling fingers—his grip noticeably weaker than usual, a terrifying confirmation of what Carla had said.
Buck looked up at the social worker, his eyes fierce. “His father called me. Eddie is on his way, but his crew is stuck at a scene across town. I’m staying with him.”
The woman's demeanor softened completely. “I will tell the doctors you’re here,” she said gently, stepping out and drawing the privacy curtain closed behind her, leaving the two of them alone.
Buck rocked Christopher slowly, whispering soothing nonsense until the boy's frantic breathing began to level out. Christopher sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve, but he didn't let go of Buck's shirt. He tilted his head up, his big eyes searching Buck's face with a heavy, heartbreaking confusion.
"Where were you?" Christopher asked, his voice small and thick with tears. "You stopped coming over. Dad said you were busy, but... I missed you. Did I do something wrong?"
The question felt like a physical blow to Buck’s chest. The guilt of the lawsuit, the isolation of the last few weeks, the agonizing distance he had been forced to keep—it all culminated in the look of rejection on a little boy's face.
"Oh, Chris, no. Hey, look at me," Buck said, gently cupping Christopher's face so their eyes met. "You did absolutely nothing wrong. Never think that, okay? You are perfect."
"Then why didn't you call?"
Buck swallowed past the painful lump in his throat. He couldn't explain billable hours, legal depositions, or union lawsuits to a terrified eight-year-old. "Because... Idid something really stupid. I made a mistake, and it made the adults have to figure some things out. We had a big misunderstanding, and we had to give each other some space while we fixed it. But it had nothing to do with you. I promise."
Christopher stared at him for a long moment, processing. "Are you still fixing it?"
"We're working on it," Buck said softly, smoothing back Christopher's hair. "But none of that matters right now. What matters is that I am right here. And I'm not going anywhere."
Christopher seemed to accept that, shifting until he could lean his back against Buck’s chest. Buck wrapped his arms around him, stretching his legs out on the hospital bed. Together, they waited. Buck kept his hands over Christopher's, gently squeezing them every few minutes, silently praying for a response, a squeeze back, anything to show the neurological connection wasn't completely severed. Christopher's legs remained terrifyingly still beneath the thin blanket.
It felt like hours, but it was barely forty minutes later when the curtain rattled back.
Eddie burst into the room. He was still in his turnout pants and standard-issue LAFD navy t-shirt, sweating, breathless, and looking entirely frantic. His eyes scanned the room, instantly locking onto Buck sitting on the bed, holding his son.
For a fraction of a second, the heavy, defensive wall of the lawsuit flickered in Eddie's eyes—but it was immediately crushed by sheer, overwhelming relief.
"Dad!" Christopher called out.
"Hey, buddy," Eddie breathed, rushing to the other side of the bed. He leaned over, wrapping his arms around Christopher, tangling his fingers into his son's hair. Eddie looked over Christopher's head, his dark eyes locking onto Buck's. Thank you, the look said, silent and heavy.
Before they could even exchange words, a woman in a white coat stepped into the cubicle. Her badge read Dr. Morrison, Pediatric Neurosurgery. Her face was a mask of severe, clinical gravity.
"Mr. Diaz?" the doctor asked.
"Yes, I'm his father," Eddie said, his posture instantly going rigid. He didn't let go of Christopher's hand.
Dr. Morrison held a digital tablet, her eyes flicking between the screen and Eddie. "The MRI results just came back from the lab. Can we step outside into the hallway for a moment to discuss the findings?"
The air in the small room instantly turned to ice. Hospital doctors only ask parents to step into the hallway when the news is bad enough to cause a scene.
Eddie’s face went incredibly pale. He looked down at Christopher, then across the bed at Buck.
"Go," Buck whispered, giving Eddie a firm, reassuring nod. "I've got him."
Eddie swallowed hard, squeezing Christopher's hand one last time. "I'll be right back, mijo. Just stay with Buck."
Eddie stepped through the curtain, following the neurosurgeon out into the main corridor. The privacy curtain was drawn, but the layout of the pediatric ER meant the front of Christopher's cubicle was a large glass observation window. The blinds were only half-drawn.
Buck kept his arms wrapped around Christopher, putting on his best, bright "Firefighter Buck" smile. "Hey, Chris, look at this tablet the lady left. Do you think we can find that game with the racing cars?"
"Yeah," Christopher murmured, his attention shifting to the screen as Buck unlocked it.
But while Buck's hands were guiding Christopher's fingers across the screen, his eyes were locked on the glass window.
Out in the hallway, Dr. Morrison was holding up the tablet, pointing to a stark, black-and-white image of a spinal column. Eddie was leaning in, watching her finger trace a specific point on the scan.
Buck watched as the last bit of color drained from Eddie’s face. He saw Eddie’s posture shatter—his shoulders dropping, his head bowing as he pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. The doctor kept talking, her mouth moving in a calm, devastating rhythm, and Eddie suddenly reached out, gripping the handrail on the hallway wall just to keep his balance.
Through the glass, Buck couldn't hear a single word. But looking at the raw, unadulterated terror freezing Eddie's features, he didn't need to.
It was bad. It was really, really bad.
The racing game on the tablet had long since faded to black by the time Christopher’s eyelids grew too heavy to fight. The nurses had pushed a heavy dose of intravenous muscle relaxants and painkillers into his IV line to stop the painful spasms in his back, and within minutes, he was out. His breathing became deep and rhythmic, his small, limp body sinking heavily against Buck’s chest.
Buck didn’t dare move. He kept his arms wrapped around Christopher like a human shield, his eyes glued to the glass window until the curtain finally rustled open.
Eddie stepped back into the cubicle.
He looked like a man who had just survived a building collapse. His skin was a sickly, translucent gray, his eyes bloodshot and completely hollow. He didn't look at Buck—not at first. He just stared at his sleeping son, his chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths.
"Eddie," Buck whispered, his voice trembling. "Hey. Talk to me. What did she say?"
Eddie sank into the plastic chair by the bedside, the strength entirely draining from his legs. He buried his face in his hands, his broad shoulders shaking silently for a long, agonizing moment before he finally forced his hands down.
"It's his spine, Buck," Eddie choked out, his voice cracked and raw. "The doctor called it thoracic myelopathy. Because of his gait, his growth spurt... a vertebrae has completely shifted. It's compressing his spinal cord. The nerve signals aren't getting through."
"Okay," Buck said, desperately trying to keep his voice steady for Christopher's sake, though panic was clawing at his own throat. "Okay, but they can fix it, right? A surgery? A spinal fusion? We've seen people bounce back from spinal injuries."
Eddie let out a bitter, heartbreaking sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "Not like this. Dr. Morrison said because of his spastic diplegia, his muscles are constantly pulling against his bones with double the force of a normal kid. She said standard spinal surgery would fail. The hardware would snap or pull right out of the bone. She told me... she told me no pediatric neurosurgeon on the West Coast would dare touch him. It's too high-risk. They're afraid they'll permanently paralyze him from the neck down."
Buck felt the cold dread from earlier turn into absolute ice. "There has to be someone. Doctors always know someone."
"There is," Eddie breathed, staring blankly at the linoleum floor. "There’s a hyper-specialized pediatric neuro-orthopedic surgeon out in Florida. Nemours Children’s Hospital. He developed an experimental technique specifically for kids with severe spastic CP. He can do it. He helped children like Christopher walking again."
"Then we go to Florida," Buck said instantly, not even hesitating. "We get him on a plane, we—"
"Buck, he's completely out of network," Eddie interrupted, his voice finally breaking as tears spilled over his lashes. "My insurance—the city insurance—refused it instantly. They called the procedure 'experimental and non-essential.' They won't cover a single cent. The hospital caseworker ran the numbers for me in the hallway. Just to get Christopher into the operating room... just the surgery itself is over a hundred thousand dollars. Out of pocket. Upfront."
Eddie pressed his fists against his eyes, his breathing spiraling into hyperventilation. "And that's just the room and the surgeon, Buck. That doesn't include the specialized inpatient robotic rehabilitation he'll need for months afterward so his body doesn't reject the hardware. It doesn't include travel, or the home equipment, or... I don't have it. I don't have that kind of money. Even if I remortgage the house, even if I sell everything I own, I won't even make a dent. My son is going to lose his ability to walk because I can't afford to save them."
The raw, agonizing despair radiating off Eddie was suffocating. He looked entirely defeated, a father watching his son's future slip away through a bureaucratic loophole.
Buck looked down at Christopher's mop of curls resting under his chin, then looked back at Eddie's shattered posture.
And suddenly, the room went completely still. The static in Buck's head cleared.
The settlement.
Just an hour ago, Buck had been staring at a thick packet of legal documents on his coffee table. Chase Mackey had presented him with a massive, staggering payout offer from the city and the department—a massive sum of money meant to make him go away, to settle the lawsuit quietly so the LAFD could avoid a public relations nightmare.
Buck hadn't wanted the money. He had hated the very sight of those numbers because they represented the rift between him and the people he loved. He had wanted his job back.
But looking at Eddie now, Buck realized that the money finally had a purpose.
It wasn't his job back. It was something infinitely more important. It was Christopher's ability to walk. It was Eddie's sanity. It was his family's survival.
Buck squeezed his arms a little tighter around the sleeping boy, his jaw setting with a familiar, fierce determination. He didn't care about the union, he didn't care about Chase Mackey, and he didn't care about his pride anymore.
"Eddie," Buck said, his voice entirely devoid of doubt, forcing Eddie to look up and meet his eyes. "Hey. Look at me."
Eddie blinked through his tears, his gaze hollow.
"We're going to get him that surgery," Buck said softly, a steady, unbreakable promise in his eyes. "I'm going to fix this."
Eddie just stared at him, his brow furrowed in deep, exhausted confusion. "Fix it? Buck, how are you going to fix this? It’s over a hundred thousand dollars. You don't just—"
"The lawsuit, Eddie," Buck interrupted, his voice a steady, rapid whisper so he wouldn't wake Christopher. "The settlement offer. It’s sitting on my coffee table right now."
Eddie went entirely rigid, his expression instantly darkening as the raw defense mechanisms of the past few weeks slammed back into place. "Buck, I am not taking your lawsuit money. I don't want anything to do with that."
"Just listen to me!" Buck hissed softly, leaning forward as much as he could without shifting Christopher's weight. "You guys think I did this because I was greedy, or because I wanted to hurt Bobby. But you don't know what Chase Mackey found. You don't know what actually happened after the bombing."
Eddie blinked, caught off guard by the sheer intensity in Buck's eyes.
"The department lied, Eddie. Bobby lied," Buck said, the truth pouring out of him like an open wound. "They told me the department's medical examiner wouldn't clear me because of the blood thinners. But Mackey got the unredacted files. The independent doctors did clear me. Bobby went over their heads. He called the commissioner and personally asked them to keep me benched. He choked out my career because he was afraid."
Eddie’s jaw slacked slightly, his mind racing to process the implication, but Buck didn't give him time to spiral.
"And it wasn't just the LAFD," Buck continued, his grip tightening on the edge of the mattress. "Mackey dug into the hospital where I had my surgeries after the truck crash. They completely mishandled my post-op care. The pulmonary embolism, the clots—it was caused by massive medical neglect on their end. They rushed me out of bed too fast and failed to monitor my therapeutic levels. They used Maddie’s wishes instead of listening to me or talking to you, who I put down to make decisions if I wasn’t able to. They almost killed me, Eddie."
The room fell dead silent, save for the steady beep of Christopher’s heart monitor. Eddie looked at Buck as if seeing him clearly for the first time in weeks. The anger, the betrayal, the isolation—it suddenly all made a horrific kind of sense.
"Mackey has them dead to rights," Buck whispered, a bitter edge to his voice. "The city, the department, and the hospital network... they're terrified of this going to a public jury. So they made an offer to make it go away. Combined, they are offering over twenty million dollars."
Eddie actually choked on his breath, his eyes widening in absolute shock. "Twenty million?"
"If I sign those papers tomorrow morning, the first check clears within twenty-four hours," Buck said, his eyes locking onto Eddie's with an unbreakable, fierce clarity. "Twenty million dollars. Christopher gets the out-of-network neurosurgeon in Florida. He gets the robotic rehab facility for as many months as he needs. He gets the hyperbaric chambers, the travel, the best physical therapists in the country, and we still won't even scratch the surface of that money. I can save his legs, Eddie. Let me do this."
Eddie looked from Buck to Christopher, his chest heaving as the sheer magnitude of the offer crashed over him. It was a lifeline. A literal miracle handed to him in the darkest hour of his life. But as Eddie stared at Buck, the shock began to curdle into a deep, painful realization.
He knew Buck. He knew how Buck’s brain worked, and he knew the fine print of high-profile corporate settlements.
"Twenty million," Eddie repeated, his voice dropping to a hollow, devastating whisper. He looked up, his eyes searching Buck's. "To make a public relations nightmare go away. They're paying you to disappear, aren't they?"
Buck's smile was small, tight, and completely devoid of happiness. He didn't answer, which was an answer in itself.
"Buck," Eddie said, his voice trembling as he leaned closer to the bed. "If you sign that settlement... if you take their money and admit that the department and the hospital settled out of court... what are the stipulations?"
Buck swallowed hard, his throat tight. He looked down at Christopher's soft curls, gently smoothing a stray strand away from the boy's forehead. "A non-disclosure agreement about the press. And a total, permanent waiver of employment with the city of Los Angeles."
Eddie felt a physical pang in his chest. "By taking that money... you would never be a firefighter again."
"It doesn't matter," Buck said instantly, fiercely, though his eyes swam with sudden tears.
"Don't lie to me!" Eddie choked out, a raw, protective anger flaring up under his breath. "Being a firefighter is everything to you, Buck! It's your entire identity. It's who you are. If you sign those papers, you are giving up the one thing you fought your way back from the dead to keep."
"I fought to get back to my family, Eddie!" Buck broke, his voice cracking as tears finally spilled over his lower lashes. "I thought the job was the only way to have you guys. But look at him! Look at Christopher! I don't care about the truck. I don't care about the turnouts. If the cost of Christopher walking again is me never putting on a badge, then I will burn that badge myself. It is a no-brainer, Eddie. It's not even a choice."
The gravity of what they were planning settled over the small hospital cubicle, heavy and suffocating.
"The no-contact order," Eddie breathed suddenly, his eyes widening as a new panic pierced through the shock. "Buck... we're breaking a court-mandated order right now. If Chase Mackey or the city’s legal defense team finds out I called you, or that you’re sitting in this room..."
"They'll claim collusion," Buck realized, his stomach dropping. "The city will argue that I'm using the lawsuit to extort them, or that we're fabricating emotional distress. They’ll lower the settlement amount. They might even pull the twenty million off the table entirely."
"We can't let them touch a single dime of that money," Eddie said, his voice a fierce, desperate whisper. He looked over at Christopher, who let out a soft, drug-induced sigh in his sleep. "Not when Chris’s mobility depends on it."
Buck nodded, his mind racing, putting the pieces of the puzzle together. "Then we don't tell them. We pretend this night never happened. I'm going to call Mackey first thing in the morning. I'll tell him I'm done fighting, I'm signing the papers, maybe give a counter offer to see if I can get a little more and I want the payout expedited. And then... I will disappear."
Eddie flinched. The word disappear felt like a physical blow. "What do you mean, disappear?"
"The settlement requires me to leave the LAFD permanently anyway. And after what Bobby did... lying to the brass, going behind my back to bench me..." Buck shook his head, a bitter tear slipping down his cheek. "I don't know who to trust in LA anymore. If Bobby could do that, who's to say the department won't try to mess with your job next if they think we're connected? I need to put distance between me and the 118."
Buck took a deep breath, his jaw tightening. "The neuro-orthopedic surgeon the doctor mentioned—the one at Nemours Children's. It's in Jacksonville, Florida. It's warm, it's by the ocean. It's exactly the kind of place Christopher loves. I'll take the settlement money, fly out there, and buy a house near the coast. A place with no stairs. A place close to the hospital and for his rehab."
Eddie stared at him, his heart aching at the sheer, overwhelming selflessness of the man sitting in front of him. Buck was giving up his career, his home, and his entire life in Los Angeles, all to build a sanctuary for a little boy who wasn't even his by blood.
"And what do I tell Bobby?" Eddie asked, his voice cracking. "What do I tell the team?"
"You tell them part of the truth. Christopher needs this surgery and you happen to have a family member living near that hospital. Tell them he's going to stay with 'family' in Florida where the climate is better for his joints," Buck outlined, the lie tasting like ash, but completely necessary. "It's not even a total lie. He is going to be with family. He’s going to be with me."
Eddie swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to map out the agonizing logistics in his head. "When the hospital gives the all clear, I'll pack his bags. I'll fly Christopher over to Jacksonville myself. I'll stay through the operation, make sure he gets through the surgery safely... but Buck, I can't stay forever. I have to come back to LA."
"Eddie, no, you should be with him—"
"I have to, Buck!" Eddie interrupted, a harsh, painful desperation in his eyes. "I need to stay employed with the LAFD. The city insurance won't cover the surgeon, but Christopher is going to need standard medications, specialized pediatric check-ups, and a dozen other things over the next year. I have to keep my city benefits active for at least another twelve months just to keep us afloat. I have to stay on the line. We have no idea how much the total cost is going to be so anything covered by insurance counts."
The realization hit them both like a physical weight.
Christopher would be living in Florida with Buck, learning how to walk again, while Eddie would be trapped thousands of miles away in Los Angeles, pulling twenty-four-hour shifts on the truck, completely alone. He would be working alongside Bobby and the 118 every single day, harboring a massive, multi-million-dollar secret, pretending his son was staying with relatives.
Eddie sank back into his chair, pressing his trembling hands against his face. The thought of his son being so far away—of missing the late nights, the morning routines, the milestones of his recovery—was tearing his chest open. But as a father, he knew there was no other choice. This was how they saved Christopher. He had done this before, while joining the army, being an ocean away while providing money and insurance to the homefront.
"A year," Eddie choked out into his palms, his shoulders shaking. "Just one year. I just have to survive one year."
Buck reached across the bed, his hand hovering just an inch above Eddie’s shoulder. He wanted so badly to touch him, to offer comfort, but the invisible walls of the legal system and the secrets they were spinning already felt like a barrier.
"You will survive it," Buck promised softly, his voice thick with emotion. "Because you're his dad. And because I'll be holding down the fort on the other side of the country. Every single day, I'll make sure he knows how much you love him. We're going to get through this, Eddie. I promise. We’re just a flight away, you can come visit on the longer weekends… Bobby will understand and help you find cover."
—
The conference room on the top floor of the law firm was dead silent, save for the rhythmic, aggressive scratching of a fountain pen.
Chase Mackey leaned back in his leather chair, his sharp eyes tracked every movement of Buck’s hand. He didn’t look pleased. In fact, the attorney looked deeply unsettled by the man sitting across from him.
"Thirty plus million," Mackey murmured, tapping a manicured finger against his pristine glass desk. "And a guaranteed upfront wire transfer to an escrow account within twelve hours of signing. I have to hand it to you, Evan. Yesterday, you were a bleeding heart who just wanted your turnouts back. Today, you walk in here, bypass my entire strategy, demand a brutal counter-offer from the city and the hospital network, and corner them so hard their risk-management team nearly choked on their coffee."
Buck didn't lift his eyes from the legal document. He didn't blink. He just flipped to the final addendum page.
"They mishandled my care, and the department lied to protect their own interests," Buck said, his voice terrifyingly hollow. It was entirely devoid of the usual frantic energy Mackey was used to manipulating. "They wanted me to disappear, Chase. I’m just charging them the exact price of my absence."
"You realize what you're signing away, right?" Mackey pushed, leaning forward, trying to find a crack in Buck's stoic armor. "This isn't just a payout. This is a total, irreversible severance. You can never apply to be a firefighter, a paramedic, or even a desk clerk for the city of Los Angeles ever again. It is very unlikely other departments will hire you when they see the paperwork. You are burning the bridge, pouring concrete over the river, and acting like it never existed."
Buck stopped. His pen hovered over the final signature line.
A total, irreversible severance.
For a split second, the image of the 118 firehouse flashed in his mind. The smell of coffee in the loft, the roar of the engine, the feeling of the heavy turnouts on his shoulders. He thought of Bobby. Bobby, who had looked him in the eye and told him he wasn't ready, while hiding the paperwork that proved he was. The betrayal still stung like a fresh burn, but the phantom pain was completely eclipsed by the memory of Christopher’s limp, unresponsive legs beneath a thin hospital blanket.
Buck pressed the nib of the pen to the paper.
Evan Buckley.
He scribbled his name, firm and dark, finalizing the death of his dream. He slid the heavy stack of papers across the glass table.
"We're done here," Buck said, standing up and grabbing his jacket.
Mackey caught the documents, but his eyes narrowed with acute suspicion. "You’re running. You didn't even ask about my fee structure for the remainder of the month. You demanded a direct wire, and your lawyer's intuition tells me you already have a one-way ticket booked out of LAX." Mackey stood up, studying Buck’s face. "Did you contact someone from the department, Evan? Because if you broke that no-contact order before the ink dried on this settlement—"
"I haven't spoken to a soul at the 118," Buck lied smoothly, looking Mackey straight in the eyes. His voice didn't even waver. "I'm leaving because there's nothing left for me here. Send the wire confirmation to my email."
Without waiting for the lawyer to reply, Buck turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Chase Mackey alone with the multi-million-dollar wreckage of his lawsuit.
Six hours later, Buck stood in the middle of his loft.
It was eerie how quickly a life could be dismantled when money was no longer an obstacle. He hadn’t packed anything that had no sentimental value. He hadn't called a moving truck. He had simply walked around the apartment with a single duffel bag, throwing in his passport, a few changes of clothes, his laptop, and the framed photo of him, Eddie, and Christopher at the concrete beach that sat on his nightstand.
Everything else—the furniture, the television, the dishes—was staying behind. He had already texted his landlord, paying out the remainder of his lease in a lump sum, telling him to donate whatever was left behind or rent it out with furnature.
He didn't call Maddie. He didn't call Chimney. He didn't call Hen. If he called them, he would break. If he heard the hurt or confusion in his sister's voice, he might hesitate, and hesitation meant risking Christopher's future. He had to be a ghost. He had to let them think he took the money and ran out of sheer, selfish greed. It was the only way to keep the secret safe. The only way to ensure Eddie kept his job and his insurance.
Buck zipped the duffel bag closed, the heavy metal slide echoing loudly in the empty apartment. He tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter.
He didn't look back as he closed the door behind him.