Chapter Text
Buck knows people think he’s too rash –that he rushes in and doesn’t think before acting. It’s not entirely wrong, but it’s not the whole picture, either.
Growing up, he learned pretty quickly that acting out was the only reliable way to get attention. It was a tangled mess of a coping mechanism that took him three years of intensive therapy to finally untangle. But the truth is, Buck’s mind is just loud and fast in a way most people don't quite get. Sure, he rushes into burning buildings to save people, because if he doesn’t, who will? Maybe Eddie, but even Eddie has his moments of hesitation. Over the years, Buck has mellowed out. His brain still screams, “DO SOMETHING!” while the rest of the team assesses a scene, but nowadays, he waits for the captain's plan. He listens to what they have to say before taking the leap.
And then Theo happens, and Buck has to take action.
Because in a deep, undeniable way, he feels responsible for it. For him. For Theo. Even though everyone gently reminds him that he really, really shouldn’t. That Theo isn’t his son. Not technically.
But he takes the four-year-old in anyway. The foster system is terrifying –Buck spent way too many sleepless nights doom-scrolling through the statistics to believe otherwise. There aren’t nearly enough Hens and Karens in the world. He read horror stories about overcrowded group homes, kids falling through the cracks, and the blatant discrimination non-traditional families face when seeking placements. Theo is a sweet, quiet little blond boy with a traumatic past, and Buck found at least fifteen articles about predatory families and worse. It’s the kind of nightmare fuel that makes him feel utterly helpless, because he's just one guy.
But he isn't just a guy. He has sway. Theo shares Buck’s DNA, and for whatever reason, that means something to the state.
Years ago, Buck actually started the process to become a licensed foster parent. It was a "just in case" measure. In case something happened to Eddie. In case something ever happened to Maddie and Chimney. Maddie and Chim had sat him down and told him that he was their first choice to take the kids –followed by Hen and Karen, and then Albert– and Buck was... profoundly touched, to say the least. But it also sent his fast-moving brain into a spiral of worry about the actual legal logistics of guardianship if tragedy ever struck. So, he did the paperwork. He got the certifications. He just never expected to use them for Theo.
Which brings him back to the present reality.
With Maddie’s help, Buck manages to throw a room together. It’s a little sparse, but it’s safe, clean, and properly outfitted for a little boy. He buys dinosaur toys, sectioned plastic plates, and endures a rigorous home visit just days before the social worker drops Theo off at his front door.
Just like that, Buck has a whole, living, breathing kid he has to keep alive.
Great.
Maddie is a godsend, helping Buck secure a spot for Theo at Jee-Yun’s preschool. It’s a bilingual Korean-American daycare and early learning center in Koreatown. It’s perfect for Jee and little one-year-old Nash, but Buck isn't entirely sure it's the right long-term fit for a grieving -not Korean- four-year-old. Still, he is incredibly grateful for the safety net while he researches better schools, alongside pediatricians, child psychologists, and anyone else who might help them navigate this mess.
But even with all the professionals on speed dial, when the day-to-day problems hit, Buck turns to his friends.
It’s maybe the third time this month alone he’s ended up at Hen and Karen’s kitchen island, wringing his hands over a parenting crisis.
This time, it was a nightmare. Or, at least, Buck assumes it was a nightmare. He had woken up around two in the morning for a glass of water and found Theo curled into a tight, shivering ball on his bedroom rug. The little boy was fast asleep in soiled, damp pajamas, the sheets on his bed soaked through. Instead of waking Buck up, instead of crying out for help, Theo had just... moved to the floor, pretending everything was fine. It had broken Buck’s heart to carefully wash the boy in the middle of the night, rubbing soothing lotion onto his red, irritated skin while Theo stared blankly at the wall, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Every kid does that, Buck,” Hen says, her voice thick with exhaustion as she leans against the kitchen counter. She’s coming off a brutal twenty-four-hour shift Buck didn't work on, her fingers rubbing small circles into her temples.
Buck knows that. He knows kids wet the bed. That isn't the point. The point is that Theo didn’t come to him. Theo didn’t trust him enough to ask for help.
“He just had an accident,” Hen continues, totally misreading the frantic anxiety pooling in Buck's chest. “I can send you a link to this enzyme spray that works wonders on mattress stains.”
Buck swallows hard, his throat tight. “Yeah. Okay.”
“And maybe buy a plastic mattress cover. It pays for itself, really,” Karen adds, offering him a warm mug of tea with a sympathetic, albeit weary, smile. “Maybe put him in pull-ups for a bit? Nia wore them at night for a month or two when she first came to us. It just takes the pressure off.”
Buck nods, wrapping his large hands around the warm ceramic mug, but he stays quiet. He watches Hen stifle a yawn and sees Karen glance subtly toward the hallway, likely listening for Mara and Denny.
A familiar, heavy stone settles in Buck’s stomach. They’re tired, his brain whispers. Tired of you.
It’s an old insecurity, loud and demanding, flaring to life in the quiet of the kitchen for no real reason. But, well, he is bothering them. He’s knocking on their door with his manufactured crises, demanding their energy when they already have their own kids, their own exhausting jobs, their own lives to manage. He’s the exhausting friend who always needs his hand held, acting like he's the only person in the world who's ever had to care for a child.
He can’t keep doing this to them. He has to figure this out on his own. He needs advice, desperately, but he can't keep burdening his family with his inadequacies. He needs an outlet where no one knows him. Where no one will sigh or rub their temples. Where he can ask a million stupid questions without feeling like a nuisance.
“Thanks, guys,” Buck says, pushing himself up from the kitchen stool. Karen frowns at the untouched tea resting on the counter. “I’ll go grab him, and we’ll get out of your hair.”
“Oh?” Hen asks, blinking in surprise.
Buck is already moving toward the living room, where Theo is still passed out on the couch, curled up exactly where Buck had laid him down earlier. He scoops the boy up. Little arms automatically loop around Buck's neck, and Buck holds the warm, slight weight closer to his chest.
“Don’t you want to stay for dinner?” Hen asks softly, following him to the doorway. “We were going to call Chim and Maddie, too. Make a whole thing of it.”
Buck almost winces. He really is making a nuisance of himself. Now he’s interrupting their family dinners with his drama. “I think we’ll lay low tonight. I have that half-shift tomorrow, and we should probably just head home and get some early sleep.”
Hen and Karen nod, watching him go. But Buck can tell that they're relieved. At least now they get their afternoon back to focus on their own kids.
“‘Uck?” Theo mutters, rubbing a tiny fist into his sleepy eyes as Buck carefully straps him into the Jeep’s brand-new, over-researched, over-priced car seat.
“We’re going home, buddy,” he murmurs, smoothing down Theo's messy blond hair before shutting the door and climbing into the driver's seat.
The drive is quiet at first. Buck hits a red light at a busy intersection and lets his forehead drop heavily against the steering wheel. Just for a second. Or two. Or three.
“Buck?”
Buck snaps his head up, blinking at the green light. “Yeah, bud?”
“Do you think...” Theo kicks his little sneakers against the seat, staring up at the roof. “Do you think the car would get squished if the sky fall down?”
Buck glances in the rearview mirror, a soft, involuntary smile breaking through his exhaustion. “No way,” Buck answers as he eases the Jeep through the intersection. “The sky is way too fragile. It would just shatter on impact, like glass.”
“Really?” Theo's eyes go wide, and he presses his nose against the window to stare up at the rolling Los Angeles clouds in absolute wonder.
“Really,” Buck promises. He watches the boy's hyperactive brain spin in the reflection. Theo is always bouncing from one big thought to the next. “Speaking of the sky, what do you want to eat for dessert today?”
“Cotton candy!” Theo answers instantly.
Buck chuckles. “Did you just say that because you were looking at the clouds?”
Theo giggles, the bright, sudden sound filling the Jeep, and Buck breathes a little easier as he reaches back to unbuckle the boy when they pull into the driveway.
Once they’re inside, Buck orders a surprise tub of cotton candy from a local sweet shop, together with the pull ups and a plastic mattress cover. While he waits for the chicken ravioli he prepped earlier to finish baking, he leans against the kitchen island, opens his tablet, and starts searching for single-parent advice boards.
The top results are massive Reddit threads, but they’re too chaotic. Too many voices, too many judgmental trolls, and Buck doesn’t feel safe airing his insecurities to an audience of millions. He digs deeper and finds a smaller, independent forum called West Coast Solo Parents Exchange. It looks low-key, heavily moderated, and localized enough to give Buck hope for fast, practical, and empathetic answers.
He starts setting up a profile, keeping one ear tuned to the hallway for Theo. For a username, he hesitates before typing in Singledadtrucker. It’s impersonal enough, or not personal at all. He fills out the required fields with vague truths: single parent, full custody, no other living parent to help. He leaves the child's gender blank and selects the "3 to 7 years old" bracket. Satisfied that his digital footprint is sufficiently safe, he picks a stock illustration of a Dalmatian for his avatar -he wanted to use the one with the firefighter hat, but he can't be that careless- and clicks register. Just as he sets the tablet down, his phone buzzes with a delivery notification, and Buck intercepts the delivery guy at the door to prevent the doorbell from ringing and spooking Theo, stashing the supplies in the hall closet. He pulls the food from the warm oven, plates it on the set dining table, and heads down the hall.
“Theo, let’s wash up for dinner!” he calls out, stepping into the doorway of Theo’s room.
Theo is sitting cross-legged on the floor, aggressively clicking through the slides of a Little Tikes projector, muttering a fast-paced, disjointed story to himself.
“What food?” Theo asks, clicking the button three times in rapid succession.
“You’ll see when we sit down,” Buck says patiently. “Do you want to finish your story now and eat, or eat now and finish the story later?”
Theo pauses, his big eyes blinking rapidly as his brain short-circuits on the choice. “Eat now,” he finally decides, immediately abandoning the projector and bolting for the bathroom. “And a cookie after food?” he negotiates, dragging his little plastic step-stool over to the sink.
Buck smiles, leaning against the doorframe. “Of course. We get something sweet if we eat our dinner first.”
Theo nods vigorously, then looks up at Buck expectantly. “Are you washing up?”
“I will,” Buck agrees, stepping up to the sink. He washes his hands first, setting an example, then patiently guides Theo's small, soapy hands under the water. When they're done, Buck hands him a towel. “Now, let’s go eat.”
“What are we eating?” Theo asks again as they trot into the dining room.
Buck just smiles. He knows from -personal- experience that Theo’s hyperactive mind often loops questions not because he actually wants the answer, but just for the sake of engaging. And if Buck answers, Theo will happily keep the volley going.
Theo drags his booster seat around the table, debating which chair is the "best" one tonight -it changes for every meal- while Buck waits calmly knowing it won’t take long. Once Theo is finally satisfied with his spot, Buck places the child-safe plate and a special chunky spoon-fork combo in front of him.
“It’s pasta!” Theo beams, recognizing the shapes.
“It is!” Buck agrees. He portions out exactly three pieces of ravioli onto Theo’s plate, alongside a single piece of boiled, seasoned broccoli and a few small carrot coins. “If you want more, just tell me,” he says, taking his own seat. He makes a deliberate show of piling a mountain of mixed vegetables onto his own plate.
Theo makes quick work of the carrots –Buck has noticed that the kid actually loves carrots– eats half the broccoli, and downs two raviolis before his attention inevitably wanders. His gaze lands on Buck’s plate.
“What is that?” Theo asks, his little index finger pointing across the table, nearly hovering over Buck’s food.
“Green pepper,” Buck tells him. “Want to taste a piece?”
Theo nods emphatically.
Buck casually spears a small piece from his own plate. He read on a parenting blog last week that toddlers are infinitely more likely to try a new food if they think they're stealing it from an adult's plate. Theo grins, pinching the pepper off Buck's fork with his fingers. Buck doesn’t even bother correcting the lack of utensils. One battle at a time.
Theo crunches on the pepper, chewing thoughtfully, his brow furrowed as he evaluates the texture. He nods to himself.
“Can I have one more, please?” he asks, his tone startlingly polite.
Buck’s chest swells with a quiet, fierce, almost surprising warmth. He smiles, transferring two more pieces of pepper across the table. “You sure can, buddy.”
In the chaos of adjusting to his new reality, Buck almost forgets about the forum entirely.
To his immense relief, Theo doesn’t complain about the nighttime pull-ups. In fact, he barely acknowledges them. Buck is quickly learning that a four-year-old’s mind –especially a hyperactive one like Theo’s– processes information like water running over stones. His attention flits from one situation to the next, he understands a new rule, accepts it as the current reality, and instantly moves on. End of story.
Still, in the quiet hours after Theo is asleep, Buck finds himself opening the West Coast Solo Parents Exchange tab. He reads through a few of the threads, silently adding ‘helpful’ reactions to comments, though he can’t quite bring himself to engage and post his own questions yet.
He does, however, steal some of the advice.
He reads a thread where one mother talks about creating a visual routine board to help her “easily-distracted” kid feel safe and grounded. It sparks a memory of his own chaotic childhood –how much he would have killed for just a little predictable structure– so after his next shift, he stops by Target. He buys a large magnetic whiteboard, some colorful markers, and a pack of superhero stickers.
He makes it to Koreatown just in time to pick Theo up from preschool, and on their way out, he lets Theo pick a small treat for being good.
“…daseot,” Theo mutters, his little hands turning a bright plastic capsule over and over. He looks up at Buck, his eyes wide. “Daseot surprises.” He holds the capsule up proudly.
“Very good,” Buck says, desperately hoping he is agreeing to the right thing. “What is that in English, bud?”
“Five,” Theo tells him confidently. He tucks the plastic ball under his arm so he can count on his fingers. “One, two, three, four, five.” He switches hands, holding up his fingers again. “Hana, dul, set, net, daseot!”
Buck nods along, genuinely impressed. The Korean immersion at Jee-Yun’s preschool is definitely sticking, if that's a good or bad thing Buck can't know yet.
“What are the surprises inside?” Theo thrusts the capsule into Buck’s hands so he can inspect it as they walk down the aisle. The bright packaging proudly advertises that it's for ages three and up, and heavily features a superhero theme.
“Let’s find out before dinner,” Buck tells him, handing it back.
Theo beams, perfectly content with the delay, and happily trails along beside the cart.
When they get home, they build the routine board together. Buck talks Theo through every step of their day, asking for his "input" while Theo mostly focuses on cracking open his surprise capsule, delighted to find miniature Spider-Man and Thor figures inside. He uses the little plastic heroes to point at the board while Buck draws the pictures.
The board works absolute wonders. For the first few days, Theo constantly runs into the kitchen to check it, his fast-moving brain needing the visual anchor.
“We eat at daseot,” Theo announces one afternoon, pointing at the clock as it nears five o'clock.
“We do,” Buck agrees, flipping a grilled cheese in the pan.
Eventually, Buck has to buy a couple of Korean-American children’s books and a bilingual wall clock with massive numbers just to keep up with his kid. Learning the words alongside Theo is actually fun, and more importantly, it keeps Theo’s buzzing little brain engaged and invested. It also reminds Buck that he really needs to sit down and figure out if he’s keeping Theo at this preschool with Jee and Nash long-term, or if he needs to start looking closer to home.
But for now, time marches on, and they find their rhythm.
Buck even manages to get two reliable babysitters on call. For the first few weeks, he had been leaving Theo with Maddie or Hen, but the crushing guilt of being a burden had eaten him alive. After asking around the firehouse, he got over ten glowing recommendations for sitters who specialize in first-responder families. Now, instead of hovering anxiously, all Buck has to do is point the babysitter to the magnetic board on the kitchen wall.
And he even made a especial one for them. It is structured, simple, and color-coded for Theo’s benefit:
- 7:00 AM – Wake Up & Stretch: A gentle wake-up, followed by 90 seconds of silly stretches (or jumping jacks) to help wake up his brain and shake out the wiggles.
- 7:15 AM – Power Breakfast: Eggs, yogurt, or cheese. (Limit sugary cereals so his mood doesn't crash).
- 7:45 AM – Get Dressed & Brush Teeth: Check the picture board to see what step comes next.
- 8:00 AM – School Drop-off.
- 5:00 PM – School Pick-up.
- 5:30 PM – Dinner & Screen Ban: Eat together at the table. NO SCREENS!! Tablets and TV go to sleep.
- 6:15 PM – Wind-Down & Bath: Transition from loud play into a warm bath.
- 7:00 PM – Story Time & Lights Out: Read a quiet book in dim light so his buzzing brain can finally rest.
It’s very simple, really.
As long as they stick to the board, nothing can go wrong.
“Hey,” Chimney says, stopping by the bench just as Buck is re-racking a pair of forty-pound dumbbells after a workout. Chimney wipes his forehead with a gym towel, his expression casual but his eyes sharp. “When are you bringing Theo around again? I feel like I haven’t seen the kid in ages.”
Buck blinks, his brain buffering. He wipes his own sweating face with the hem of his t-shirt. “Oh, hmm –I, uh. I can call Maddie later and set up a playdate?” he offers, suddenly feeling guilty.
Chimney frowns. “I mean, that would be good. Keep that in mind for the weekend. But I meant Theo and you coming over for dinner. Today. After shift.”
Buck blinks again. His mind immediately races to the carefully color-coded magnetic board in his kitchen. Today is a Tuesday. Tuesdays mean preschool, home, dinner at 5:30, no screens, bath, bed. “Oh. Hmm. Are you sure? I don’t want to impose, we’re still kind of figuring out–”
“Buck,” Chimney interrupts, firm but kind. “You’re family. You don’t impose. We’re making chicken. Bring the kid. Okay?”
Buck stares up at him, entirely disarmed by how simple Chimney makes it sound. “Oh. Hmm, okay?”
“Okay!” Chimney exclaims, clapping his hands together, clearly pleased with himself for breaking through Buck’s self-imposed isolation. He turns and heads toward the bay.
Buck blinks, looking down at the heavy black iron of the dumbbells. “Okay,” he mutters to the weights.
So, maybe Buck didn’t read enough of those forum posts. Because apparently, when you have a hyperactive four-year-old on a very strict, highly regulated routine, and you shatter that pattern without a transition plan or forewarning... things go bad.
“NO!” Theo screams.
Things go bad fast.
Buck freezes. He looks down, entirely unequipped for what is happening. “Theo, hey, it’s okay–”
“No! No! NO!” Theo shrieks, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He isn't crying for a reason, he is just screaming, his face turning a blotchy, furious red. His little hands grab a plastic clamshell of powdered donuts from the low display shelf and hurl it at the linoleum floor. The container pops open, white powder dusting Buck’s boots.
“Okay,” Buck whispers to himself, his heart spiking into a panicked rhythm. “Theo, what’s wrong? Use your words, buddy.”
But Theo is lightyears beyond listening. He is trapped in a full-blown meltdown, kicking his legs and shrieking in high, piercing bursts.
Buck can feel the eyes on them. Shoppers are pausing at the ends of the aisle, their carts stopped, staring at the disaster. The heat of humiliation and failure crawls up the back of Buck’s neck, settling hot and heavy in his cheeks.
“Control your kid,” an older man mutters snidely as he pushes his cart past them, shaking his head.
The words feel like a physical blow. Buck’s chest tightens. He drops to one knee, trying to scoop up the spilled donuts with one hand while trying to pull a thrashing, screaming Theo against his chest with the other. A tired-looking supermarket employee in an apron walks over, picking up the ruined box.
“I’ll pay for it, I’m so sorry,” Buck stammers over the ringing in his ears, struggling to hold the kicking boy.
The worker just shakes his head, waving Buck off with a tired hand. “Just go. I got it.”
Buck abandons his half-empty basket right there in the aisle. He hauls Theo up into his arms, ignoring the way the boy flails and screams directly into his ear, and practically jogs out of the sliding glass doors into the warm evening.
He doesn't stop until they are at the edge of the parking lot, standing near a patch of decorative grass. Buck sets Theo down on his feet but keeps a firm, grounding hand on his back.
“Theo, please stop,” Buck pleads, his own voice shaking. Theo is gasping for air now, the screams dissolving into violent, full-body hiccups. “Take a breath, buddy. C’mon. Breathe with me.”
Buck forces himself to take theatrically loud, slow breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He exaggerates the movement of his chest, rubbing slow, deep circles into Theo’s back, hoping the physical rhythm will anchor the boy.
Slowly, agonizingly, it works. The fight drains out of Theo’s little limbs. He slumps forward, burying his wet, red face into Buck’s jeans.
“‘Sworry,” the boy mutters against the denim, his voice ragged and tiny.
Buck’s heart shatters. He drops to his knees on the concrete, pulling Theo into a tight hug. “That’s okay. It’s okay,” Buck says, resting his chin on top of Theo's blond hair. He racks his brain, trying to grasp any scrap of knowledge he’s gleaned from the deep-dives and parenting forums. “Can you tell me what happened? Why were you so upset?”
Theo doesn’t answer. He just keeps hiccuping, his small hands fisted in Buck’s shirt. He doesn't know why he exploded. He just knows he feels terrible.
Buck sighs, looking out over the sea of parked cars. He can see his Jeep a few rows over. Every instinct in his body is screaming to retreat –to strap Theo into his car seat, drive back to the safety of their house, and hide. But... he shouldn’t just cancel everything and go home, right? If he leaves now, isn't that teaching Theo that throwing a tantrum gets him out of things? He is almost sure he read somewhere that it’s a bad thing to let a child ‘win’ an outburst.
But he isn’t sure. He isn't sure of anything. This is exactly the kind of situation he desperately needs Hen, Karen, or Eddie to weigh in on. But if he calls them, he has to admit that he broke down in the middle of a grocery store. He has to admit that he is making everyone’s life harder with his utter incompetence.
He swallows the lump in his throat.
“We are going to go have dinner with Aunt Maddie and Uncle Chimney,” Buck tells Theo softly, pulling back just enough to wipe the boy's tear-streaked cheeks with his thumbs. “And then we are going home, and we are going to sleep. Okay?”
Theo shudders with a leftover hiccup, but he doesn’t argue.
Taking a deep breath, Buck picks Theo back up. He carries the exhausted boy back through the sliding glass doors. The same worker is near the entrance, and to Buck’s surprise, the guy offers him a sympathetic, knowing smile. Buck flushes red, nodding stiffly in acknowledgment before making a quick detour to the bakery to get dessert for the dinner.
With Theo dead weight against his shoulder, Buck grabs a snack, plain sugar cookies and a small juice box –just in case Maddie’s cooking is too much for Theo’s currently fragile system.
When they finally make it to the Jeep, Buck buckles a very compliant, half-asleep Theo into his car seat. Once the door is shut, Buck climbs behind the wheel and just sits there. He grips the leather steering wheel, taking a minute to breathe in and out in the quiet of the cab.
So, that happened. He failed a very public stress test, and he has absolutely no idea how to prevent it from happening again. He will have to learn how to deal with meltdowns, and he clearly can't rely solely on guesswork and generalized Google searches. He puts the car in drive and heads toward Maddie’s house taking a long path, his mind already composing his very first post for the West Coast Solo Parents Exchange. There is no way he can navigate this alone anymore, and he can't even imagine telling his friends that Theo had a public meltdown. He needs help.
Maddie is smiling brightly when she opens the door, holding it wide. Theo, who seems miraculously reset after a brief power nap, proudly holds up the white cardboard bakery box Buck bought.
“We brought cake, Aunt Maddie!” Theo announces happily. “But it’s from a box. We usually bake the cake.” His little brow furrows, and if Buck isn't mistaken, the boy sounds genuinely offended by this deviation from their usual kitchen activities.
Maddie laughs softly, taking the box and pulling the boy into a brief, warm hug. “Thank you, darling. Any cake is good cake.”
“No, that’s wrong,” Theo corrects her. It’s not impolite, just the blunt black-and-white logic of a kid's mind.
“Theo,” Buck sighs, the residual adrenaline from the supermarket making his bones ache. “Hi, Mads.” He leans in, hugging his sister tightly before gently ushering Theo inside.
Dinner is a messy, but warm affair. Buck spends most of it observing Theo interact with Jee-Yun while he happily cuddles a babbling Nash against his chest. He navigates Chimney and Maddie’s well-meaning questions with deflections, trying desperately not to turn a family dinner into an interrogation about child psychology.
“So, how is he liking the school?” Chimney asks during a lull, using his fork to gesture toward Theo, who is currently engaged in a staring contest with a piece of broccoli.
“He loves it,” Buck says, bouncing Nash on his knee. “I actually had to buy a couple of children’s books with Korean words just so I can understand some of what he’s learning. But it’s good. It keeps his mind active.”
Maddie smiles softly, her eyes tracking Theo as the boy taps his spoon against the table in a rapid, erratic rhythm. “He is still... very active?”
Buck stiffens slightly. “He’s a kid.”
Chimney and Maddie share a fleeting, loaded look across the table. Buck pretends not to notice. He isn’t stupid. He knows Theo exhibits signs of hyperactivity, a short attention span, and high emotional volatility. It’s very likely the kid has ADHD or some other developmental hurdle. But Theo is also barely four years old and his entire world was recently upended. Buck isn't ignoring the signs, but he fiercely refuses to slap a label on the kid while they are still just trying to survive the transition.
“I got him an appointment with a new play therapist for next month,” Buck adds, his tone carefully neutral. “We’ll see how that goes. But for now, he’s fine.”
“Oh, that’s great,” Maddie says, though her gaze lingers on Buck a moment too long. “Anything else?”
Buck blinks, gently coaxing Nash’s pudgy fingers open before the baby can rip the collar of his Henley off. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Maddie starts, her voice dropping into that gentle, older-sister cadence that usually makes Buck want to squirm. “You used to have so many questions. Every day it was something new. And lately... you aren’t asking anything.”
Buck suppresses a wince. Control your kid.
“Oh,” Buck says, forcing a bright, convincing smile. “We’ve settled. Got a good routine going.”
Maddie beams, visibly relieved. “That’s wonderful, Buck.”
When they finally start passing plates, Theo smiles down at his bowl of white rice. “Bap!” he announces happily.
“Yeah, buddy,” Buck nods.
“And the greens?” Theo asks, looking up expectantly as Chimney spoons a little more rice onto his plate.
Chimney pauses, confused. “Greens? I thought he ate all the carrots already.”
“He means seaweed seasoning,” Buck translates, hiding a smile.
Chimney blinks. “Do they eat that at preschool?” he asks Buck in a loud, stage whisper.
Buck snorts. “Apparently.”
“I like the egg one!” Jee-Yun chimes in from her own booster seat.
“I like the all green one!” Theo counters loudly.
“I don’t think we have–” Chimney starts, then suddenly stops, his eyes lighting up. “Wait! Ah, found it.” He hops up, rummaging through the pantry before returning with a small glass jar. “My dad left some furikake here during their last visit.” He hands it to Buck. Buck glances at the label; it looks entirely too fancy for a four-year-old’s palate, but it’s definitely some dry green seaweed mixture.
“Here you go, buddy,” Buck says, popping the lid and shaking a generous dusting over Theo’s rice. “Now, what do we say to Uncle Chimney?”
“Go-ma-wo-yo,” Theo enunciates very carefully.
Chimney’s face melts into a massive, pleased grin.
“And in English?” Buck prompts gently.
“Thank you!” Theo repeats, immediately diving into his food with his hands.
“Are you thinking about changing his school?” Chimney asks a little later, as they are finishing off the grilled chicken.
“I don’t know yet,” Buck admits, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “It was supposed to be temporary, just a safe place while I looked around. But Theo is really thriving with the structure there. I’m only afraid the language immersion might get confusing for him later on when he hits regular kindergarten.”
Chimney nods wisely, stabbing a too soft piece of carrot and offering it to Nash. “Yeah, I can see how that could be a hurdle. Have you talked to Eddie about it?”
Buck blinks, genuinely perplexed. “Why would I talk to Eddie about it?”
“Wasn’t Christopher raised bilingual?”
Buck stops, a soft laugh escaping him. “I don’t think so. Eddie is barely bilingual himself. I mean, his Abuela speaks Spanish, and they watch some television in Spanish, so Chris definitely knows words. But overall, they’re pretty much a strict English-only household language wise.”
“Huh,” Chimney mutters, frowning slightly. “I didn’t realize.”
“Do you see it as important?” Buck asks, genuinely curious. “That Jee and Nash know Korean?”
Chimney glances fondly at his kids. “I think so. It’s part of my culture, and it’s their culture, no matter how physically removed they might be from it.”
“Well, I’ve been helping Theo with his homework, so they aren’t that removed,” Buck jokes, earning a warm chuckle from his brother-in-law.
When it’s finally time to go, Maddie wraps her arms around both Buck and the heavy, sleepy toddler resting on Buck's hip. “Don’t be a stranger,” she murmurs into his shoulder.
“Yeah, of course not,” Buck promises, and then they are out the door into the cool night air.
By the time they get back to the house, it’s already past bedtime. Buck stares at Theo, who is practically dead weight in his arms, and debates just putting him straight into bed. He is so tempted to skip the bath and the books. But the memory of the grocery store tantrum flashes in his mind.
He decides not to risk it. He wakes a grumbling Theo up, and they speed-run the evening routine. Even though Theo has a lot of loud, disjointed complaints about the water temperature, the amount of bubbles, and Buck's reading speed, the familiarity of the steps works its magic. It takes the boy mere minutes to fall back fast asleep once his head hits the pillow.
With the apartment finally quiet, Buck boots up his laptop, sits at the kitchen island, and pulls up the West Coast Solo Parents Exchange. He stares at the blinking cursor for a long time before he finally starts typing his first real post.