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Summary
“I can’t keep doing this, Eddie. Your sweatpants are in my dresser. You buy the right spices at the farmer’s market for my recipes. You wear the monstrosities I knit for you. You hold my kid’s hand when we’re crossing the street.”
Eddie’s lips are at the hinge of his jaw, like he’s testing the waters. It makes Buck brave enough to bring a numb hand up to one of the belt loops on Eddie’s darkwash jeans, thumbing there restlessly—sliding the tips of his fingers under the hem of his obsidian button-down. The skin-to-skin contact is all at once relieving.
“I think we’ve both known what we are for a while now,” Buck goads, hushed; tilting to arch his neck back against the wall, granting Eddie unlimited access, praying he takes the explicit invitation. “You’re my best friend. But this isn’t sustainable.”
or: Buck's sick of pretending.