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Summary
"Yours. Always yours," Eddie answers, sinking back against the headrest, face kissed gold by the morning light. He angles Buck a sidelong look, then adds a considerate, “unless you’d rather not. If you’re tired—”
“No, no,” Buck cuts in quickly, pinking at Eddie’s clear preference. “I’ll make us something. I like cooking for you.”
Eddie hums, pleased, and turns back to the sun. His lashes slide shut, languid as a cat stretched across sun-warmed concrete. “I like when you do, too.”
Or, truth serum: party of two. Unfortunately, they're the last to know.