Chapter Text
Evan Buckley was a man too sensitive for his own good, and he knew it. He liked to think that growing up with a mother who had made him feel misplaced with every disapproving look thrown his way, and a father who’d barely acknowledged him—all steely eyes and taut shoulders—had shaped him into the emotional person he was today, years of neglect and pent-up hurt accumulating into his early twenties until those rotten feelings had nowhere else to go.
But on some nights, when the dim light from downstairs cast soft shadows over his empty loft, and the sounds of Los Angeles’ bustling city life—drunk college students howling, familiar sirens blasting into the vastness of the night—started to fade into the only background noise that tethered him to reality, Buck played with the thought that maybe, he was the man he was, because he’d simply been born that way.
And for that, there was no excuse.
Buck sat in his Jeep, his hands gripping the wheel tightly, his head resting against his extended arms. He was tired. Ever since the truck bombing, and the tsunami, and the godforsaken lawsuit, he’d barely been sleeping—most nights finding him either unable to fall asleep or drowning in water that wasn’t real.
The nightmares had grown worse during the isolation of the lawsuit. His loft was always empty—devoid of the people who used to drop by and make living alone a little more bearable. It had been weeks since he’d had a proper conversation with anyone except his lawyer. Weeks since he’d stormed out of Bobby and Athena’s living room, livid.
It was like he’d been entirely forgotten; left behind to rot in a hellhole of his own making.
He’d hoped that once he returned to work, things would settle. The 118 would look past his stupid mistake and everyone would move on. Maybe they’d even laugh about it in a few days—about the absurdity of it all. Except he’d been back for a week now, and things were somehow even worse.
Eddie wasn’t talking to him. Bobby was keeping him at arm’s length, refusing to make him anything other than man behind on every shift. Chimney kept looking at him like he was a traitor. And Hen only spoke to him in clipped answers, like he wasn’t worth her time anymore.
It was crueller than sitting in his loft with no one around, his calf seizing with phantom pain. Because his family was right there, and yet completely out of reach.
Buck could take the criticizing side glances from the other firefighters—the ones they thought he didn’t see. He could take the annoyed huffs when he walked by, and the snide comments once his back was turned and they assumed he wasn’t listening. But he wasn’t sure he could take the silence that seemed to follow him everywhere these days.
He thought back to his first day on shift after the lawsuit.
Buck had entered the bay, relishing in the familiarity of the fire station—the firefighters milling around, the lingering smell of petrol and smoke, the shiny red paint of the fire trucks. It was a stark contrast to his dark loft, where the only things distracting him from his spiralling thoughts were dirty dishes and laundry.
He was back where he belonged. There was a profound relief in seeing familiar faces again, rather than just his own miserable reflection staring back at him through a fogged-up mirror.
Buck moved with a newfound lightness, a goofy smile stretching across his face. But it slowly faded as he realised no one had welcomed him back. Not one “Good to see you!” or “Glad you’re back!”. Just irritated looks and whispers that made his skin crawl.
It quickly dawned on him that his enthusiasm was entirely one-sided.
Bobby climbed out from underneath the rig on his right, and Buck stiffened. If anyone had a reason to be especially irritated by his return, it was him.
“Hey,” Buck squeaked, his face burning with shame. He almost couldn’t bring himself to look the captain in the eye, terrified of what he might see there, but he braced himself and forced his gaze upward to meet Bobby's.
The captain nodded curtly in lieu of a greeting—his posture rigid, his glare icy.
“Buckley.”
Buck could have sworn that for a moment, he’d been sixteen again, his father looking at him like he was the world’s biggest inconvenience.
He bit his tongue. The way he’d spat out his name like a piece of spoiled meat told him the man was seething underneath his distant act, eyes blazing with contained fury—a sharp crack in his indifferent exterior.
It dragged Buck instantly back to a house in Pennsylvania, to a father glaring at him with a cold rage Buck had never understood.
Was this the point where he apologised? Dropped to his knees, begging for forgiveness? Discarded the cocky grin he wore so unsteadily on his face and revealed the messed-up good-for-nothing he was underneath?
Buck faltered. No. He would have to own up to his mistakes. There was no point in asking Bobby to forgive him.
“I’m really glad—” Buck began thanking him, but the captain cut him off.
“Hope it was worth it.”
Something in his tone made Buck almost flinch. His eyes flickered to Bobby’s hand—an automatic response his body had never quite forgotten—his shoulders relaxing once he saw it was unclenched. Although he knew the captain would never lay a hand on him—certainly not here, in their workplace—he couldn’t suppress the instinct left over from his teenage years.
The urge to apologise rose immediately. “No, I never… Look, Bobby, I— I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Save it,” Bobby quickly interrupted, his voice harsher than Buck had heard in a long time. “Make yourself useful and mop the floors. You’re man behind today.”
He sounded detached; like he was dismissing an annoying teenager.
Buck pressed his lips together. He breathed in very slowly, like his lungs might’ve constricted if he hadn’t, and thought to himself, I can be useful.
Buck couldn’t be a lot of things, but he could be useful.
He looked into his captain’s eyes, seeing the icy irises of his father instead. “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
Just as he was about to pick up the mop, Bobby called after him. “Oh, and Buckley!” Buck perked up like a pathetic dog desperate for scraps. Maybe he’s been pulling my leg. Maybe it was all an act and he isn’t that angry. Maybe— “That’s Captain Nash to you.”
Buck swallowed the knot forming in his throat.
He hadn’t been with the 118 for a long time—weeks spent wallowing in self-pity, rotting in the suffocating silence of his cold loft, waking up in the middle of the night, shirt drenched in sweat, the phantom sensation of water sloshing in his lungs the only remnant of his nightmare—only to come back to a home that freshly despised him.
He knew it had been his fault—the lawsuit, the unfair accusations, the sudden distance between him and his team. He could see why Bobby was angry, but he hadn’t expected this rift between him and the rest of the station. Later, he berated himself for being so naive. He’d sued the entire department. It made perfect sense that people weren’t exactly eager to welcome back the guy who’d dragged the 118’s reputation through the mud.
Though what else had he been supposed to do? Simply accept that his captain wouldn’t let him back on the job, even after Buck had passed every single recertification? Give up and lose the only family he had?
A childish part of him had hoped someone would try to see the lawsuit from his point of view. That someone would understand, even just little bit, where he was coming from—why he had done what he had done. But then again, if he was being honest with himself, Buck had never really expected a sympathetic ear. He’d spent most of his life as the odd man out. What was one more incident?
Still, it was cruel how easily Buck kept losing one family after the other. It did terrible things to his heart.
Buck took out the mop, his grip tighter than necessary, and dragged it across the muddy tire tracks, each pass squelching against the floor. A voice that sounded suspiciously like his mother’s echoed in his ears. There you go ruining everything with your antics again. Squelch. Can’t you get a hold of your emotions, Evan? Squelch. God, get a grip on yourself, Evan. Squelch. Do you always have to mess everything up, Evan? Squelch. Why do you keep acting out, Ev—
“You’re back.”
The sudden voice cut through his spiralling thoughts. Buck startled, boot catching on the edge of the mop bucket behind him. Grey, soapy water sloshed over the rim, soaking into his clean laces.
He scrambled to catch his balance, looking up to find Chimney and Hen standing a few feet away.
Neither of them moved to help. They just stood there, arms crossed over their station blues, watching him. The familiar warmth that usually filled the station was completely gone. In its place was a heavy, suffocating cold. They weren’t looking at him like a teammate; they were looking at him like an impostor.
Buck’s palms instantly went slick with sweat. Desperate to break the ice, he forced his thousand-watt smile onto his face. He reminded himself of how Bobby had reacted—he needed to tread carefully.
“Guys! Hi,” Buck said, his voice sounding too loud in the suddenly quiet bay. “I— I know the lawsuit, uh, kind of drove a wedge between us...”—God, why was he so formal? And why did it feel like there was a stone lodged in his throat?—“But I’m— I’m really happy to be back. Truly. I missed you guys.”
Hen pressed her lips into a thin, bloodless line. Beside her, Chimney shifted his weight, deliberately looking past Buck’s shoulder towards the trucks. The rejection was physical, cutting right through Buck’s chest.
“Not to be mean, Buck," Hen said, her voice entirely devoid of its usual affection. "But I wish I could say the same.”
Buck knitted his brows. The words slammed into him like a physical blow. He’d expected to be frozen out by Bobby, but he hadn’t expected Hen, of all people, to be holding a grudge.
“No, you don’t get to look at us like a kicked puppy after everything you’ve done.”
The sudden venom in Chimney’s voice made Buck flinch. Chimney stepped forward, closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. “I mean, dragging our private family matters into a lawsuit? Seriously? That was a low blow, even for you.”
Chimney was standing right in front of him now, an accusing finger pointed straight at Buck’s chest.
Buck instinctively took a step back, his spine almost hitting the brick wall of the firehouse bay. He opened his mouth to defend himself then, to explain that he’d never meant for the lawyer to use those things, words already raising on instinct—sharp, automatic, ready. Later he would hate himself for it, for always reaching to defend what couldn’t be defended, as if it was some reflex he couldn’t unlearn.
But before the words could leave his mouth, he saw it. A brief, raw flicker of genuine hurt cut across Chimney’s face, mirrored closely in the tense set of Hen’s jaw. The words collapsed inside him, died there—unfinished and useless.
He lowered his gaze to the damp concrete floor.
“Yeah. Got nothing to say?” Chimney challenged, his voice dropping an octave, harsh and demanding in the quiet space. “Got nothing to say, now?”
The 118 firehouse vanished. Buck wasn’t in Los Angeles anymore. He was suddenly trapped back in a freezing, suffocating house in Pennsylvania. He could feel the phantom sensation of warm blood trickling down his temple. He could see the snow gathering thick on the window sills. Above him stood his father—mouth set in a cruel line, an angry crease deep between his brows, the vein on his forehead pulsing with rage.
His father’s voice hissed down at him like he was some filthy rat pulled from the sewers: “Got nothing to say, now? Get up before I clock you again, I swear to God.”
It was ninety degrees out in LA, but out of nowhere, Buck felt cold all over.
“That’s what I thought,” Chimney scoffed when Buck made no effort to answer. His eyes were dark—holding a resentment that felt almost cruel.
Hen placed a calming hand on her friend’s shoulder.
“Chim—”
“No. I don’t wanna deal with this right now,” Chimney cut her off, stepping back. “I’m going to help Bobby make breakfast.”
Buck stared down at the mop in his hands, soapy water dripping into a small puddle by his boots. He listened to the fading rhythm of Chimney’s footsteps as the man walked away.
Silence. Buck blinked, but his vision was blurry. Get up, get up, get up before I clock you again, I swear to God. Get up, Evan. The phrase looped in his mind like a broken record.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the empty space between them, but he wasn’t entirely sure if it was Hen he was apologising to.
Hen let out a long sigh, her shoulders deflating as she looked at him. The hard edge in her eyes softened just a fraction, replaced by a deep exhaustion. “Y’know... for what it’s worth, Buck, the station hasn’t been the same without you.”
She didn't say it to be kind. It was just a heavy, undeniable truth—the family was fractured. But to Buck, it was oxygen. The immense pressure locking down his chest loosened up just enough for him to breathe. Hen's comment was a lifeline. It wasn't full forgiveness, but it was a sign of life. A tiny confirmation that he hadn’t destroyed everything beyond repair.
“Thanks, Hen,” Buck said, his voice raw but determined. “I’m going to make this right.”
She gave a slow, measured nod. “Then maybe you can start by checking up on Eddie.”
Buck frowned. Eddie. It was as if the mere mention of his best friend had jump-started a stalled engine inside the chest. They hadn’t spoken since the lawsuit. Buck hadn’t seen Christopher or Eddie in weeks. “What’s wrong with Eddie?”
“He’s been acting off.” Hen clarified, eyes filling with concern. “And I mean really off. Showing up to work with bruises and brushing off any concerns—even Bobby’s.”
Buck’s frown deepened. “I, uh— Really?”
He wanted to think she was exaggerating. People didn’t just show up to a professional firehouse covered in injuries. Not unless—
His father’s fist flashed before his eyes. Get up before I clock you again, I swear to God.
Buck gulped, the air turning thick in his throat. No one showed up with inexplainable bruises unless they’d been beaten and had no proper way of hiding the evidence.
“It’s kind of obvious,” Hen continued, snapping him out of the spiral. “He showed up with a bruise the size of a damn crater last shift. And today, he called in sick. That’s three times in the last two weeks or so.”
Buck didn’t like the underlying worry in her voice. “A-and not even Bobby...?”
“Nope. Not even Bobby knows what’s going on.”
Buck dragged a hand over his chin, heavy-hearted. “And he didn’t give any— any clues? Christopher is okay?”
“Chris is fine, staying with Abuela when Eddie's shifts get weird. But Eddie? He's tight-lipped.”
“How long—”
“Has he been showing up to work like this?” Hen finished for him, anticipating the question.
Buck nodded mutely.
“I don’t know, about a month, maybe. It’s hard to tell. We only started noticing small marks at first—barely bruises, really. He said he’d been assembling furniture for Christopher’s room, so that’s where they came from. But then the bruises started getting worse...” Hen stepped closer, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “Buck, you need to talk to him.”
Buck gave another faint nod. “Yeah, I— I will, Hen. Thanks for letting me know.”
She pressed her lips together, a flicker of silent appreciation in her eyes, before gesturing toward the stairs to the loft. “I’m gonna go get some breakfast. I’m starving.”
Buck stood still for a couple more seconds, a hollow ache opening up in his chest. Eddie had been showing up to work struggling and bruised, and Buck hadn’t known. For an entire month, his best friend had been drowning in something terrible, and he hadn’t been there to pull him up.
Perhaps that was why Eddie had been so vicious at the grocery store—because Buck had discarded his best friend’s struggles in favour his own loud, selfish need.
He resumed mopping, dragging the dripping strips across the concrete absent-mindedly, moving like a machine stuck on autopilot. He thought of brown eyes, tanned skin and warm palms. Of harsh words travelling through the aisles of a grocery store.
Exhausting, exhausting, exhausting.
The rest of the shift saw Buck recoiling further and further into himself. It was like he was back in his childhood home—everyone was miles away despite paradoxically occupying the exact same room. At one point, he was almost certain that he could drop dead to the floor in the middle of the bay and no one would bat an eye.
Buck shuffled through the station completely unnoticed, as if he were a ghost haunting the place. He made a point of double-checking everything—his SCBA pack, his turnouts, his SCBA pack again, the rig compartments, the ambulance’s inventory—trying to swat away the thought that there had been a time, not so long ago, when he would’ve been doing all of that while talking Eddie’s ear off or playfully arguing with Hen about his reckless tendencies or listening to Chimney complain about the primitive state of today’s movie industry.
But the worst part were the meals. As soon as he sat down at the table, conversations quieted—not at the drop of a hat, but quickly enough that he noticed. Before he knew it, every pair of eyes turned away from him, leaving no room to extend an olive branch. An anxious itch settled under his skin, growing with each second he listened to the talk resume, flowing naturally around him while keeping him entirely locked out.
The awkward tension during meals eventually drove him to stop sitting down at the dinner table altogether. Each time he slipped away, he heard the loft behind him bloom with laughter.
And if that wasn’t undeniable proof that Evan Buckley was poison, he didn’t know what was.
When a call came in, he stood by and watched the truck drive away in a daze until he was alone in the empty apparatus bay, mentally preparing himself for the silence that always followed.
By the end of shift, he felt more miserable than ever. No one had been eager to talk to him all day, his attempts at starting any kind of conversation being instantly shut down or met with stony silence. He’d skipped dinner, too anxious to show upstairs, but at least the hollow, empty feeling in his stomach made him feel somewhat better about himself—like, in some sick, twisted way, he was paying for what he’d done.
Once Buck got back to his loft, he was greeted by a room that oozed a looming emptiness. The blinds were drawn, dishes sat unwashed in the sink, and the only sound penetrating the silence was the low hum of his refrigerator. He didn’t even bother to turn on the lights or shower before collapsing onto his bed, closing his eyes with a pit in his stomach. He wanted to sleep and forget about That’s Captain Nash to you, and I wish I could say the same, and That was a low blow, even for you, and Evan, why are you being so difficult, and Get up before I clock you again, I swear to God.
He wanted to forget it all.
It took two hours of tossing and turning, and a couple of melatonin gummies, to finally fall into a fitful sleep. Buck jerked awake twice during the night, clutching his chest in panic, the lingering feeling of being tossed around by a giant wave still in his bones, the impossible taste of salt water prickling in his throat.
Nightmares weren’t unknown territory for Buck. He’d had them throughout his teenage years, dreaming of his father’s red knuckles and the freezing planks of their hardwood floor. He’d had them after witnessing Devon fall to his death from a dangling rollercoaster seat. He’d had them after the truck bombing, waking to the feeling of an immense weight on top of him, crushing his entire body this time, not just his leg.
But the nightmares about the tsunami were different. He used to wake from his bad dreams with nothing more than a jolt and an uneasy tightness in his chest. After the tsunami, though, he’d find himself shooting out of bed, choking on air, lungs burning as if they still couldn’t remember how to work above water.
Buck eventually gave up on sleep and started his day at four in the morning, too wired to drift off again.
He went for a run. He washed the dishes. He shot Maddie a text, because they hadn’t talked much since the lawsuit. He took a shower, although he didn’t hold his head under the showerhead. The water hitting his skin was too much like that day—too much like the ocean still on him.
The first time he’d taken a shower after the tsunami, it had pulled him back without warning: the cold, the panic, his own voice breaking raw and useless as he screamed Christopher’s name until there was nothing left in his lungs but air that wouldn’t come. Running, falling, calling again and again into nothing.
He turned his face away from the water.
The next shift confirmed what Buck had already been told about Eddie. The man was changing in the locker room, Hen sorting her clothes beside him. He looked wrung out, skin uncharacteristically pale, dark smudges under his eyes. Purple bruises covered his arms, stretching from his elbows all the way down to the split skin above his knuckles. What the hell? Buck had thought, a queasy feeling settling in his chest. Those weren’t just superficial marks. Those looked like someone had used Eddie as a punching bag.
Despite it all, Buck was excited to see his best friend again, forcing the memory of Eddie’s venomous grocery store outburst to the back of his mind.
Stepping into the locker room, Buck felt his palms sweat. “Good to see you, man,” he greeted Eddie with all the élan he could muster. He felt like a tiny rodent prodding an angry bear.
Eddie pivoted away, eyes snapping to his locker as if even looking at Buck meant exposing himself to dangerous toxins. A flat, “Hey,” left his mouth, barely audible over the rustling of clothes echoing through the room.
Buck’s heart dropped. Any fragile hope that Eddie had cooled off—or silently forgiven him since Eddie’s blowout at the grocery store—evaporated on the spot. His best friend was still fuming, and looking at him now, Buck could see why. He had cut contact with him, and by extension with Chris—all because of his stupid, rash decision to sue the department. Simply because he’d been completely unable to wait just a little longer until he got off the blood-thinners. It didn’t matter that he’d filed the lawsuit because Bobby had unrightfully held him back. It didn’t matter that Buck had never intended to shut Eddie and Chris out. None of his reasons mattered. Eddie had needed him, and Buck had been too occupied with his own childish tantrum to even notice.
Buck ignored the tug in his chest and walked over to his own locker, eyes skimming over Eddie’s exposed skin as a tense coil wound tight in his gut. When he tried asking Eddie about them, the shorter man uttered a curt, “That’s none of your business,” gaze fixed stubbornly on his open locker.
“It is our business, though, when it impairs your ability to show up for the job, Eddie,” Hen pointed out softly, shoving her bag into her locker.
Eddie’s shoulders tensed. It wasn’t really noticeable to anyone else, but then again, Buck had been conditioned to notice these things.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eddie snarled. Buck didn’t like the barely restrained aggression in his best friend’s posture.
Hen threw up her hands in defence. “I’m just saying. You’ve been calling in sick more often these past few weeks.”
Eddie’s jaw ticked. “I just took some bad falls. Christopher’s been all over the place lately, it’s hard to keep up.” It was a lie, and they all knew it.
“Did Christopher suddenly become a bodybuilder and start tossing you into walls or something?” Chimney asked dryly, walking into the locker room and setting down his duffel bag.
Eddie snorted. “Yeah, he’s practically Arnold Schwarzenegger now.”
Suddenly, Buck felt out of place. An anxious thrum ran through his body. They were all sort of talking again—him and his family—but it felt like an invisible wall had formed between them, leaving him stranded on the other side. Neither Chimney nor Eddie spared him a glance, and Hen brushed past him like he was just standing in the way. Like he didn’t belong.
Buck was tired of not belonging anywhere.
He quickly changed into his LAFD shirt and left the locker room, feeling like he might have suffocated if he’d stood there a second longer. His gaze drifted over the station, desperately searching for something that would occupy his tormented mind. Nothing stood out. He decided to head upstairs and make breakfast, hoping to lift the others’ spirits. Hoping to be good for something—anything.
However, as he was climbing the stairs two at a time, the smell of butter melting in a pan hit his nostrils. Buck came to a halt. From his vantage point, he could see Bobby opening an egg carton.
Buck scrutinised the man like it was his first time really seeing him. Bobby’s tall figure moved around the kitchen with the steadiness of someone who always knew what needed to be done, cracking open eggs, mixing them in a pan. But there was a certain languidness to his movements—a detail so subtle most people would have missed it, but Buck noticed. He always noticed these things.
The lawsuit was still weighing Bobby down, Buck realised with a pang. So much that it was written in the captain’s body language.
A wave of shame crashed into him. That man had taken him under his wing when Buck had still felt like he might forever be someone who wasn’t really wanted anywhere. That man had taught him—very patiently, because Buck had always been peculiarly talented at messing things up—how to slice up a pineapple into perfect little triangles without making a mess. How to back up a fire engine. How to tie a flawless Windsor knot.
Bobby Nash had been the father Phillip Buckley never managed to be.
And Buck had rewarded that man with a lawsuit. He had endangered his career, had indirectly brought up his past issues with substance abuse. He’d screwed him over. And for what? Because Bobby hadn’t wanted him back?
Buck truly couldn’t even blame the man. Who, in their right mind, would ever want to keep him around, after all?
The 118 had adopted him, and it had gotten them a lawsuit and a shit ton of stress.
Sometimes, Buck was certain that all he was good for was inflicting pain.
And yet, in the weeks to come, when he would lay in his bed, chest hollow, a sick, deranged part of him would whisper: Do you feel this pain, Bobby? Do you know now how much it hurt when you told me you were the one who didn’t want me back?
Buck went back downstairs, numbness spreading throughout his body. It left him feeling floatier and more distant with each step he took. Secretly, he wanted someone to yell at him. Tear him apart. Drive their fists into him until he couldn’t get back up again. He needed it—he craved the hot thrum in his bones, the throbbing wounds, and the harsh words.
Because the alternative made no sense. His chest was tight with the familiarity of it all—the thick tension in the air, the undercurrent of anger, the unspoken hostility. Every survival instinct drilled into him by Phillip Buckley screamed that this was the prelude to a blowup. But the violent outburst never came. There was only this suffocating, static silence, leaving his nervous system entirely stranded, braced for a strike that wouldn't fall.
He checked the rig’s compartments (a task so redundant, he almost laughed at his own desperateness), head ringing with Why do you always mess everything up, Evan? and No one will ever be willing to deal with the way you behave, Evan. He dug his nails into his palms.
He was standing next to his hung-up gear, staring off into nothingness, when the familiar ring of the station alarm rung out. “Buckley, scrub the showers,” Bobby ordered as he ran past and climbed into the fire truck.
Buck clenched his teeth. “Yes, Captain.”
On his way to the showers, Eddie passed him with a blank face. Buck mustered up all the courage to call after him.
“Good luck out there!”
He didn’t get a reply. Eddie’s broad shoulders disappeared behind the corner—a retreating shadow of a person.
Buck unclenched his jaw. Maybe Eddie hadn’t heard him, a naive part of him hoped. The rest of him dared not even think about how much his best friend had to loathe him.
He scrubbed the showers until his hands felt numb and tidied the common room, putting away the controllers he and Hen would always play Fire Truck Simulator with—the very game where he’d inevitably mow down every virtual civilian in his path just to clock a record response time, while Hen loudly accused him of cheating and tried to wrestle the controller from his hands—sadness surging through him without warning.
Buck looked around then, noting how everything stood completely still—reminiscent of what he imagined timelessness might feel like—the only sound the distant drip of the kitchen sink. The engine bay was empty, the dinner table set for just four people, a mound of scrambled eggs at its centre, steam still wafting from it.
Buck felt like a ghost.
He let his hands fall limp at his sides.
Buck hated silence. He couldn’t stand it. It wasn’t just the absence of noise (that, he didn’t mind at all)—it was what it left behind. Tension hanging in the air. The feeling that no one was there, even if someone had just been. Loneliness that pressed in without making a sound.
Their house in Pennsylvania had always been silent, especially after Maddie had left. Cold rooms and creaking floorboards. The hour-long car rides through South America. His loft, for weeks now. Everything was silent.
He leant against the kitchen counter and looked at the common room.
A haunted part of him thought that if he squinted hard enough, he could imagine the plain walls of his childhood home. Chalk-white plaster. Popcorn ceiling. He could almost smell the air in that living room—heavy with the kind of stale smell that stuck to a place no one truly lived in.
Buck stood in a silence so loud it slowly drove him insane.