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The late afternoon sun slanted through the living room windows, painting warm rectangles of gold across the rug. It was the kind of quiet, lazy hour that felt stolen from a busier day, and Buck was determined to use it for exactly one thing: Operation: Keep Theo Entertained Without Screen Time.
He’d already lost the battle for a board game. Theo, at six, had a negotiator’s soul and had argued that Monopoly was “for grown-ups with too much time” and that he was “saving his energy for important stuff.” Buck had countered with a coloring book, which Theo had agreed to only if they could also build a fort. Buck had agreed, on the condition that the fort be structurally sound and not collapse on Christopher.
“It’s going to be a castle,” Theo announced, dragging every single cushion off the couch and piling them in the middle of the floor. “A big one. For knights.”
Buck, cross-legged on the floor, was busy anchoring a bedsheet to the back of the armchair with a heavy encyclopedia. “Knights, huh? Are we expecting an invasion?”
“Maybe,” Theo said, his face serious as he wrestled a cushion into place. “You can never be too careful.”
From his spot on the other side of the room, Christopher let out a soft, breathy laugh. He was propped comfortably against the side of the couch, his crutches resting within easy reach. He’d been watching the chaos unfold with the patient, slightly amused air of a king surveying his court. “Theo, if a dragon attacks, I’m using you as a shield.”
“No fair! I’m the smallest!” Theo protested, but he was grinning. He loved it when Chris played along.
Buck’s heart did a familiar, soft squeeze. This. This was everything. The mess, the giggles, the way Chris’s eyes were bright and focused, the way Theo was already covered in dust bunnies from the couch cushions.
“Alright, Your Highness,” Buck said, turning to Chris. He stood up and offered a hand. “Time to inspect the construction site. We need your expert opinion on structural integrity.”
Chris took his hand, the grip sure and steady. Buck helped him to his feet, a practiced, fluid motion. He handed Chris his crutches, and Chris adjusted his stance, finding his balance. His cerebral palsy made his movements a little different, a little more deliberate, but there was a quiet grace in the way he navigated the world.
“Structural integrity?” Chris repeated, raising an eyebrow. He swung his crutches forward, taking a careful step. “I’m a twelve-year-old, Buck. Not an engineer.”
“You’re an engineer of fun,” Buck said, walking beside him, close enough to catch him if he needed it, but giving him space. “That’s way more important.”
Theo, who had been busy trying to drape a second blanket over the top of the fort, had created a lopsided, precarious-looking dome. “Okay, okay, come see! It’s ready!”
Buck and Chris stopped at the entrance, which was really just a gap between the coffee table and a pile of pillows. Buck ducked his head and peered inside. It was dark and cozy, smelling of fabric softener and Theo’s apple-scented shampoo.
“It’s… ambitious,” Buck said diplomatically.
“It needs a roof,” Chris said, his voice dry. He pointed with one of his crutches. “That corner is going to collapse if you breathe on it.”
Theo’s face fell for a second, then brightened. “You can fix it! You’re tall!”
Buck laughed. “I’m not an architect, Theo. I’m a firefighter. We break things down, we don’t build them up.”
“But you’re good at fixing stuff!” Theo insisted, tugging on Buck’s hand. “Please?”
Buck looked at Chris. Chris shrugged, a small, amused smile playing on his lips. “Don’t look at me. I’m just the structural consultant.”
“Fine,” Buck sighed, but he was already rolling up his sleeves. “But if this whole thing comes down on our heads, I’m blaming both of you.”
For the next twenty minutes, the living room was a whirlwind of activity. Buck, with his long arms and surprising patience, re-engineered the fort. He used the heavy coffee table as a central pillar, draped the biggest blanket over it like a circus tent, and anchored the edges with stacks of books and a few strategically placed shoes. Chris directed from a sitting position on the floor, his crutches laid beside him. He pointed out weak spots and suggested using the back of the armchair for support. Theo was the official “interior decorator,” dragging in every stuffed animal he could find and arranging them in a circle.
“Okay,” Buck said, stepping back to admire his work. The fort was now a proper, majestic structure. It had a low, wide entrance, a sloping roof, and a distinct “throne” made of the biggest, fluffiest pillow. “Behold. Casa de Buckley.”
Theo scrambled inside, his head disappearing under the blanket. A moment later, his face popped back out, beaming. “It’s perfect! Come in! Both of you!”
Buck looked at Chris. “You first, buddy.”
Chris didn’t need help getting down to the floor; he was a pro at it. He lowered himself carefully, using his arms for support, and then scooted backward into the fort. Buck followed, folding his long legs into the cramped space.
Inside, it was a world away. The light was soft and golden, filtered through the blankets. The air was warm with their shared breath. Theo had already arranged himself on the throne, a stuffed tiger on his lap and a very serious look on his face.
“Okay,” he said, in a voice that was trying very hard to be a king’s. “The royal court is now in session. First order of business: snacks.”
Buck snorted. “I knew it. You’re a tyrant.”
“A benevolent tyrant,” Chris corrected, leaning back against a pillow. He looked perfectly at home, his legs stretched out in front of him. “He’ll let you live if you bring him goldfish crackers.”
“Goldfish crackers are the currency of the realm,” Theo agreed, nodding sagely.
Buck sighed dramatically. “Fine. But I’m the royal treasurer, and I say we need to discuss the budget first.”
Theo giggled. “There’s no budget! It’s a magical kingdom!”
They bickered happily for a few more minutes, a silly, nonsensical argument about dragon taxes and the proper way to address a knight. Chris chimed in occasionally, his comments sharp and witty, making both Buck and Theo laugh.
At one point, Theo crawled over and leaned against Buck’s side, his small body warm and trusting. “Buck,” he said, his voice quiet now. “This is the best fort ever.”
Buck’s throat tightened. He put an arm around Theo, pulling him close. “Yeah, buddy. It is.”
He looked over Theo’s head at Chris. Chris was watching them, a soft, genuine smile on his face. His eyes met Buck’s, and for a second, the world outside the blanket fort—the afternoon sun, the dusty floor, the quiet house—faded away. It was just the three of them, in their silly, imperfect, perfect little kingdom.
Buck felt a warmth spread through his chest, a feeling so big and pure it almost ached. This wasn’t a romcom. There were no grand gestures, no dramatic confessions, no sweeping soundtrack. It was just a firefighter, a twelve-year-old with cerebral palsy, and a six-year-old tyrant, all crammed into a blanket fort on a Tuesday afternoon.
And it was, without a doubt, the most romantic thing Buck had ever been a part of.
“Hey,” Chris said, breaking the spell. He was looking at the roof of the fort, where a small gap in the blankets let a single beam of sunlight through. “I think I see a structural flaw.”
Buck groaned, but he was grinning. “Don’t you start, Christopher.”
“I’m just saying,” Chris continued, his voice innocent. “If dragons.” He was interupted by a knock on the door, and a confused buck broke character, leaving the boys in the fort while he went to answer it.
The door clicked shut, and the temperature in the apartment dropped ten degrees.
Margaret Buckley stood in the entryway like she was assessing a crime scene. Her eyes swept the living room—the blocks scattered across the rug, the half-empty juice cup on the coffee table, the crayons that had rolled under the couch. Her nose wrinkled almost imperceptibly. Phillip stood beside her, hands in his pockets, already wearing the expression Buck had spent his entire childhood trying to decode. Disappointment. That was the default setting. Disappointment with a thin veneer of tolerance that fooled no one who had ever been on the receiving end of it.
Buck forced a smile. “Thanks for coming.”
Neither of them acknowledged the statement. They never did. It was like his words evaporated before they reached them.
Theo was on the floor, a chaos of limbs and enthusiasm. He had constructed something that might have been a spaceship or might have been a dinosaur habitat—even he seemed uncertain. He was narrating his own actions in a running commentary that included explosion sound effects, a detailed explanation of why the red block was the captain, and a sudden detour into asking whether fire trucks could fly.
“Can they? Because if they can’t, how do they get to space fires? Are there space fires?”
Buck felt a warmth spread through his chest. This was Theo. All of him. The relentless curiosity, the inability to hold a single thought for more than thirty seconds, the way his brain jumped from topic to topic like a stone skipping across water. It was exhausting sometimes. It was also beautiful.
“Great question,” Buck said, already crouching down. “So, technically, space doesn’t have oxygen, so fires can’t—”
“Evan.” Margaret’s voice cut through like a blade. “He’s exhausting.”
Buck straightened slowly. The warmth in his chest cooled. “He’s got ADHD.”
Phillip scoffed. Actually scoffed. The sound was sharp and dismissive, a blade honed by decades of practice. “Oh, Evan. That ridiculous excuse again.”
“It’s not an excuse.”
“It is.” Phillip’s voice was flat. “It’s always been an excuse with you. ADHD isn’t a personality, Evan. You just made it one.”
Buck felt the words land like a slap. “I didn’t make it anything. It’s a neurological condition. It affects—”
“Everyone else learned to control themselves,” Margaret said, cutting him off. “You decided you were exempt.”
“That’s not—”
“You don’t have a disorder.” Phillip’s voice was ice. “You have an excuse. You always have.”
Buck’s hands found the counter edge and held on. The granite was cool beneath his palms. He focused on that. On the cold. On the solidness of it. “It’s not an excuse. It’s an explanation. There’s a difference.”
“You’ve spent your whole life looking for a diagnosis to absolve you,” Margaret said. “First it was just ‘I can’t help it.’ Then it was ‘I’m different.’ Now it’s ADHD. What’s next, Evan? When does the list of reasons you can’t just behave run out?”
Buck’s jaw tightened. “It’s not a list of reasons. It’s one thing. One thing that I’ve had my entire life and that I’ve spent my entire life being punished for.”
“Maybe if you’d spent half as much energy controlling yourself as you did demanding everyone accommodate you, you’d be different,” Phillip said.
“I’m not demanding—”
“You’re an adult.” Phillip’s voice rose slightly, the first crack in his composure. “At some point, ‘I can’t help it’ stops being an explanation. At some point, you have to take responsibility for the fact that you’re unbearable to be around.”
Buck’s breath caught. The word hit him in the chest like a physical blow. Unbearable.
“You don’t struggle because you’re different,” Margaret added. “You struggle because you’ve never learned discipline. Because we were too soft on you. Because we let you believe that your feelings mattered more than your behavior.”
“My feelings—”
“Your diagnosis doesn’t make you less responsible for being unbearable,” Phillip said again, hammering the word home. “You don’t get to use ADHD to excuse every selfish thing you’ve ever done.”
Buck’s hands were shaking. “I’m not trying to excuse anything. I’m trying to explain—”
“We managed to raise Daniel without needing a label to explain him,” Margaret said.
The name landed like a grenade.
Buck’s mouth went dry.
“Daniel was—”
“Daniel was a child who understood what was expected of him,” Phillip said. “Daniel didn’t need a diagnosis to justify his behavior. Daniel didn’t make us question where we’d gone wrong as parents.”
“With Daniel, things were easy.” Margaret’s voice was distant, almost dreamy. “You always made us miss him more.”
Buck felt the world tilt. “I’m not—I didn’t ask to be born after him. I didn’t ask to be—”
“You were never supposed to be his replacement.” Margaret’s eyes were cold. “You were supposed to be our second chance.”
“And you weren’t.” Phillip’s voice was flat. Final.
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Buck couldn’t breathe.
Theo had stopped building. He was watching the adults with wide, frightened eyes, his small hands frozen mid-motion. He didn’t understand the words, but he understood the tone. He understood that something terrible was happening.
Buck wanted to go to him. He wanted to shield him. But his feet wouldn’t move.
“Look at Christopher,” Margaret said, her gaze shifting to the kitchen table where Christopher sat frozen, his pencil still in his hand. “That’s a child who knows how to behave.”
“Don’t,” Buck said, his voice weak.
“Eddie managed to raise a respectful child,” Phillip continued. “Christopher doesn’t make everything about himself. Christopher listens when someone speaks to him. Christopher doesn’t need constant attention.”
“Christopher doesn’t turn every correction into a personal attack,” Margaret added. “Perhaps you should ask Eddie how he managed to accomplish what we couldn’t with you.”
Buck’s hands curled into fists. “Christopher has cerebral palsy. He’s had to work harder than anyone to—”
“At least Christopher has an excuse when something is difficult for him,” Phillip said. “He doesn’t use it as a crutch. He doesn’t hide behind it. He works harder because of it.”
The implication hung in the air, unspoken but deafening. Unlike you.
“You can barely keep yourself organized,” Margaret said, shifting tactics. “You forget everything. You can’t regulate yourself and you think you’re qualified to regulate a child?”
“I’m not—”
“You don’t know the difference between parenting and indulging someone,” Phillip said. “You want to be his friend. That’s not parenting.”
“I’m not trying to be his friend. I’m trying to—”
“You’re projecting your own childhood onto him.” Margaret’s voice was sharp. “You’re trying to fix yourself through him. Theo doesn’t need another child looking after him.”
Buck’s breath caught. “I’m not a child.”
“Then stop acting like one.” Phillip’s voice was cold. “You agreed to take him because you wanted someone who would need you. Because you can’t stand the thought of not being indispensable to someone.”
“That’s not—”
“You don’t know how to take care of someone without making yourself indispensable,” Margaret said. “You never have.”
Buck felt the floor shifting beneath him. “I love him. I love Theo. That’s why I—”
“You always needed to be the center of attention.” Phillip’s voice was rising now. “Even now, everything has to be about you. We came here to meet Theo, and somehow we’ve spent the last hour listening to you explain why you’re the victim.”
“I’m not—”
“You haven’t changed as much as you think you have.” Margaret’s eyes were hard. “You’re still that same selfish little boy.”
Buck’s vision blurred. “I was a child. I was a child and I had ADHD and you never—”
“You were never an easy child to love.” Margaret’s voice was quiet, almost conversational. “We spent your entire childhood putting out fires you’d started. You made being your parents harder than it had any right to be.”
Buck felt something inside him crack.
“You weren’t misunderstood, Evan.” Phillip’s voice was flat. “You were difficult. You made everything harder than it needed to be. Every other child managed. You just couldn’t.”
“We couldn’t take you anywhere without wondering what you’d do next,” Margaret said. “There was always something with you. Always.”
Buck’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
“You demanded so much from us,” Phillip continued. “So much. And we gave it. We gave everything. And you still—” He stopped. Shook his head. “You still made us wonder what we’d done wrong.”
“Do you know how many times we wondered what we’d done wrong to end up with you?” Margaret’s voice was soft, almost gentle. “How many nights we sat up trying to figure out where we’d failed?”
Buck felt tears on his face. He hadn’t realized he was crying.
“Daniel never needed this much work,” Phillip said. “Daniel understood what was expected of him. Daniel didn’t spend his childhood making excuses. Daniel didn’t make us question where we’d gone wrong.”
“Sometimes looking at you was a reminder of everything we’d lost,” Margaret said. “Every time you acted out, every time you made a scene, every time we had to apologize for your behavior—we thought of Daniel. We thought of what could have been.”
Buck’s legs felt weak. He grabbed the counter to steady himself.
“You were never supposed to be his replacement,” Phillip said. “You were supposed to be our second chance.”
“And you weren’t.” Margaret’s voice was final.
Buck’s hand slipped off the counter. He stumbled back a step.
“And now you’re doing it again,” Phillip said. “You’re taking a child who needs structure and discipline and you’re going to ruin him the same way we let you ruin yourself.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re going to teach him that his behavior is excusable,” Margaret said. “You’re going to teach him that the world should accommodate him. You’re going to raise another version of you.”
Buck looked at Theo. Theo was crying now, silent tears streaming down his face, his small body shaking.
And Buck heard his father’s voice, quiet and devastating:
“Do you know how many times we wondered what we’d done wrong to end up with you?”
Buck’s hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking. He was angry—so angry—the kind of anger that had nowhere to go because it had been building for thirty years, because every time he’d tried to express it as a child, he’d been told he was being dramatic, being difficult, being too much. The anger had nowhere to go, so it stayed. It festered. It became part of him.
“You punished me,” he said, his voice low and cracking. “For everything. For being unable to sit still. For interrupting. For forgetting things. For losing things. For talking too much. For getting distracted. For emotional regulation. For impulsivity. For being overwhelmed.”
He was pacing now, unable to stop moving, his words tumbling out faster and faster. “Every single thing you’re calling Theo badly behaved for is something I’ve spent my entire life being ashamed of. Every single thing. I still flinch when I forget something because I’m waiting for someone to yell at me. I still apologize for existing when I get too excited about something. I still—”
“That’s because you were difficult,” Margaret said.
“I had ADHD.”
“You had an attitude.”
“I had ADHD.”
“You wanted attention.”
“I had ADHD.”
“You were selfish.”
“I HAD ADHD!”
The scream tore out of him, raw and broken and thirty years too late. It filled the apartment, echoed off the walls, hung in the air like something physical. Buck’s throat burned. His chest heaved.
Silence.
Theo had frozen mid-motion, a block suspended in his hand. Christopher’s pencil had stopped moving. Buck was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his face wet. He hadn’t realized he was crying.
“I still have ADHD,” he said, quieter now, his voice raw and scraped clean. “It didn’t disappear because I became an adult. I’m still affected by it every day. I still struggle. I still forget things and lose things and talk too fast and get overwhelmed by noises and lights and—”
“And yet you expect us to feel sorry for you,” Phillip said.
“No.” Buck’s voice broke. “I expected my parents to believe me.”
“We knew you.” Margaret’s voice was cold, clinical, like she was delivering a diagnosis. “We raised you. We knew you better than any diagnosis. You were just difficult.”
Buck looked like someone had punched him in the chest. He stood there, tears streaming down his face, and his parents looked at him like he was performing. Like this was just another attention-seeking behavior. Like everything he did was just another way of saying look at me, look at me, look at me.
“Maybe we should have been harder on you,” Phillip said. “Maybe if we’d been stricter, you wouldn’t have needed this—this crutch.”
“Maybe I wasn’t the complete copy for Daniel.”
The name hung in the air like smoke.
“We loved both our sons,” Margaret said quickly. Too quickly.
“You didn’t love me the same.”
“Daniel didn’t make everything so difficult.”
Buck’s face changed. Something in it went slack, like a switch had been flipped. The anger drained out of him, replaced by something hollow and cold.
“Daniel understood what was expected of him,” Margaret added.
“I was a kid.”
“So was Daniel.”
Buck went silent. He had nothing left. He had spent his whole life fighting to be seen, to be heard, to be believed, and he was standing in his own apartment with his parents looking at him like he was still the same difficult child they’d never wanted.
And then Phillip delivered the killing blow.
He looked at Buck—really looked at him—and something in his face hardened. “Sometimes I think life would’ve been so much better if Daniel had survived and you hadn’t.”
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Complete silence.
Theo stopped moving. He didn’t understand the words, not really, but he understood the weight. He understood that something terrible had just been said. He looked at Buck with wide, scared eyes, his small hands clutching a red block so tightly his knuckles went white.
Christopher looked at Buck. His hand found the edge of the table, steadying himself.
Buck didn’t react.
He just stared at his father.
His mother didn’t immediately defend him.
That was almost worse.
Buck’s face emptied. All the anger, all the pain, all the fight—it drained out of him like water through a sieve. He looked suddenly young, suddenly small, suddenly like the child he’d never been allowed to be.
Phillip kept going, because he was angry now too. “At least we’d have had one son we could be proud of.”
Buck’s lips parted.
Nothing came out.
“That’s enough,” Margaret finally said.
But she didn’t say that’s not true.
Buck noticed.
He noticed everything. The way his mother’s voice wavered. The way she didn’t meet his eyes. The way she let the words hang in the air without correcting them, without taking them back, without defending the son who was still standing in front of her.
“Oh.”
That was all. Just that single, quiet sound. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was the sound of something inside him finally giving way.
He looked at Theo. And then something horrible crossed his face. Something like realization. Something like horror.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have taken him.”
“Evan—”
Buck shook his head, his movements jerky and disconnected. “Maybe you’re right.”
He started spiraling. You could see it happening in real time, like watching a building collapse floor by floor. Maybe he was too much like Theo. Maybe he really did enable him. Maybe he was incapable of raising anyone. Maybe he only agreed to take Theo because he wanted to save a version of himself. Maybe he was going to damage Theo the same way his parents had damaged him. Maybe he was going to make Theo hate himself the way Buck hated himself. Maybe he was going to break Theo the way he was broken.
“What if I’m just going to fuck him up too?”
The whisper was barely audible.
He looked at his parents, but he wasn’t seeing them anymore. He was seeing the past. He was seeing himself at six, at ten, at fifteen, always too much, always not enough, always wrong. He was seeing every punishment, every lecture, every time he’d been told to try harder, be better, be someone else.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I wasn’t Daniel.”
Eddie had been standing in the doorway.
He didn’t know how long he’d been there. Christopher had texted him—Come over. Please. Now.—and he’d dropped everything. He’d run. He’d driven faster than he should have, his hands shaking on the steering wheel, his mind racing through every possible scenario.
He’d heard everything.
He’d heard the ADHD dismissal. The Christopher comparisons. The way they’d used his son as a weapon against Buck. He’d heard Daniel’s name. He’d heard the sentence about Buck dying instead.
He looked absolutely furious.
But he didn’t make this about himself.
He walked into the room, past Margaret and Phillip without looking at them, and stopped directly in front of Buck. He placed his hand on the small of Buck’s back.
Buck jumped. He hadn’t known Eddie was there.
Eddie kept his hand there, rubbed slowly up and down, let his presence say what words couldn’t. I’m here. I heard. I’m not leaving.
Buck looked at Theo. Theo was scared, unusually quiet, sitting in the middle of his destroyed spaceship with his small hands clutched together and his eyes fixed on Buck.
And something in Buck came back.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry. It was quiet and certain and final.
“I’m not going to let you do this to him.”
His parents opened their mouths, but he kept going.
“I’m not going to let him grow up thinking his brain makes him bad. I’m not going to make him apologize for things he can’t control. I’m not going to tell him he’s lazy when he’s struggling. I’m not going to tell him he’s too much.”
His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop.
“Because I know exactly what that feels like.”
“You’re enabling him,” Margaret said.
“No.” Buck’s voice was steel. “I’m understanding him.”
“You’re too close to see clearly.”
Buck looked at Theo. “I’m close enough to see him.”
He looked at Christopher. “Chris is Chris.”
Then Theo. “Theo is Theo.”
Then his parents. “Neither of them is better.”
And finally: “Neither of them needs to be Daniel.”
Eddie stepped forward. He picked up Margaret’s jacket from where she’d draped it over the back of a chair and held it out to her. “You can go now.”
“We’re not finished—”
“You’ve said enough.”
His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.
Margaret took the jacket. Phillip stared at Eddie for a long moment, something calculating in his eyes. Then they left.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Buck didn’t move.
He sat on the floor, his back against the cabinets, his knees pulled up to his chest. He looked small. He looked young. He looked like a child.
Eddie crouched down beside him. “Buck.”
No response.
“Buck, look at me.”
Slowly, painfully, Buck lifted his eyes.
“I’m not going to let you do this to him.”
Eddie waited.
“I’m not going to let him grow up thinking his brain makes him bad.” Buck’s voice was hoarse. “I’m not going to make him apologize for things he can’t control. I’m not going to tell him he’s lazy when he’s struggling. I’m not going to tell him he’s too much.”
His voice cracked.
“Because I know exactly what that feels like.”
Eddie’s hand found his. Squeezed.
“You’re nothing like them,” Eddie said. “You’re nothing like them, Buck. You’re kind and you’re patient and you show up every single day and you try. You try so hard. And you’re enough. You’ve always been enough.”
Buck’s breath hitched.
Theo appeared beside him. Small and scared and crying. “Are you still going to look after me?”
Buck’s face crumpled. He reached out and pulled Theo into his arms. “Yeah.”
“Even though I’m difficult?”
Buck held him tighter. “You’re not difficult.”
“Grandad said—”
“He’s wrong.” Buck’s voice was fierce, broken but fierce. “He’s so fucking wrong.”
Christopher joined them, wrapping his arms around both of them.
Eddie stayed beside Buck, one hand against his back, grounding him, holding him together.
Buck held both boys.
The irony was that his parents had spent the entire afternoon telling him he wasn’t capable of looking after Theo. And the first thing Buck did after they left was make absolutely certain Theo knew: he wasn’t broken. He wasn’t bad. He wasn’t too much.
Buck knew because he was still living with the exact same thing.
And unlike his parents, he was determined that Theo would never have to spend his life apologizing for it.
—
Later. Eddie had moved to the kitchen to fix together some food for the kids, after finding out there was nothing in the fridge, he decided on ordering pizza.
Eddie walked out the kitchen to the living room, buck was standing in the exact same place he was when his parents were shouting at him just hours before.
Eddie stepped into the archway. “Buck?”
No response.
Christopher appeared from the hallway, Theo trailing behind him with a stuffed dinosaur clutched to his chest. Chris had his concerned dad face on, which was impressive for a twelve-year-old. Theo just looked confused, his big eyes darting from Buck to the door and back again.
“Buck?” Chris said softly.
Buck blinked. Once. Twice. Then his face did something awful—it crumpled, but no sound came out. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and made a noise like he was trying to swallow a scream.
Eddie crossed the room in three strides. He didn’t ask. He just wrapped his arms around Buck and pulled him in, and Buck went like a marionette with cut strings, folding into Eddie’s chest with a shudder that went through his whole body.
“Okay,” Eddie murmured against his hair. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
“They said—” Buck’s voice cracked into splinters. “They said—Eddie, they said—”
“I know. I heard.”
“They said I wasn’t supposed to—that Daniel would’ve been better. That he would’ve been a better son. A better brother for Maddie. They said they wondered what they did wrong to end up with me. They said—they said life would’ve been better if—”
His breath hitched. He couldn’t finish.
Eddie held him tighter. Behind them, Christopher had gone very still, and Theo—sweet, oblivious, wonderful Theo—had walked right up to Buck’s leg and wrapped his tiny arms around it, pressing his face into Buck’s knee.
“Buck sad,” Theo announced, as if diagnosing the obvious.
Buck made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He reached down blindly and scooped Theo up, tucking him into the hug so that Theo was squished between him and Eddie. Theo didn’t complain. He just patted Buck’s cheek with a sticky hand and said, “It’s okay. I’m here.”
Christopher hovered for a moment, then made a decision. He walked over and wedged himself into the group hug from the side, his arms going around both Eddie and Buck. “We’re all here,” he said firmly. “And they’re wrong. They’re super wrong. Like, historically wrong.”
Buck laughed again, wetter this time. “Chris—”
“No, listen.” Christopher pulled back to look him in the eye, and he had Eddie’s stubborn chin and Eddie’s earnest intensity. “You’re the best person I know. You’re my favorite person. And you’re a really good dad. Theo loves you. I love you. Dad loves you. That’s, like, four people who are right, versus two people who are wrong. Math says we win.”
Eddie snorted. “That’s… actually solid logic.”
“I’m good at math,” Christopher said, with the air of someone stating an obvious fact.
Theo, still wedged in the middle, looked up at Buck with grave seriousness. “I wuv you, Buck. You’re my best friend.”
Buck’s face did something complicated. He pressed his lips together, blinked rapidly, and then buried his face in Theo’s hair. “Thanks, buddy.”
They stood there for a long moment, a tangle of arms and warmth and stubborn love. Then Eddie gently extracted Theo and put him on the floor next to Christopher. “Can you lead him to his room, I’ll be there in a minute.”
Christopher nodded, taking Theo’s hand. “Come on, little dude. Let’s find your pajamas.”
“The ones with the dinosaurs?”
“Obviously.”
They shuffled off down the hall, Theo chattering about whether dinosaurs could be sad and Christopher patiently explaining that yes, dinosaurs had feelings, but they mostly expressed them through roaring.
Eddie turned back to Buck. Buck was sitting on the couch now, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face. His shoulders were still shaking, but silently.
Eddie sat down beside him. Didn’t touch him. Just sat.
“I know you don’t want to hear this right now,” Eddie said quietly, “but I’m going to say it anyway, because I need you to hear it. And then you can tell me to shut up, and I will. But first, I need you to listen.”
Buck’s hands slid down to his mouth. He nodded.
“Your parents are wrong,” Eddie said. “Not just about the horrible things they said tonight. They’re wrong about everything. They’re wrong about who you are. They’re wrong about what you deserve. They’re wrong about what you’re capable of.”
Buck made a small, broken sound.
“Your ADHD isn’t an excuse,” Eddie continued. “It’s an explanation. Your ADHD isn’t something you have to make up for. You don’t have to turn every part of yourself into something useful before you deserve to be loved. You’re not too much. You’re exactly as much as you’re supposed to be.”
Buck looked up. His eyes were red, his face blotchy, his nose running. He looked wrecked. He also looked like he was trying very hard not to believe what he was hearing.
“You were a difficult kid,” Eddie said. “So was I. So was Chris. So is Theo, honestly. Difficult kids aren’t broken. They’re just kids who need different things. Your parents didn’t know how to give you what you needed, and that’s their failure. Not yours.”
“But Daniel—” Buck’s voice cracked.
“Daniel was their first chance,” Eddie said firmly
“And they lost him. That’s tragic. But they never should have made you feel like you were supposed to be a replacement or a spare part. You’re not a replacement for anyone. You’re Evan. You’re Buck. You’re the guy who showed up at my door with groceries when I didn’t ask. You’re the guy who learned how to do Chris’s hair because I couldn’t figure out the curls. You’re the guy who took in a four-year-old with zero hesitation because you knew he needed someone who wouldn’t give up on him.”
Buck’s breath hitched.
“You’re not too much,” Eddie said, his voice dropping. “You’re everything. And I mean that literally. You’re everything to me. You’re everything to Chris. You’re everything to Theo. And if you think for one second that I would trade you—that any of us would trade you—for some imaginary version of a brother who never existed, you’re out of your mind.”
Buck stared at him. His lips parted. “Eddie—”
“I love you,” Eddie said. “I love your chaos and your tangents and your inability to sit still. I love that you talk with your hands and your face and your whole body. I love that you forget things and then remember them at exactly the wrong moment. I love that you care so much it physically hurts you. I love that you’re a lot, because so am I, and we fit.”
Buck made a sound like a sob and a laugh at the same time. “We fit?”
“We fit,” Eddie confirmed. “You and me and Chris and Theo. We’re a weird, loud, chaotic family, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not for Daniel. Not for a version of you that was easier. Not for anything.”
Buck’s face crumpled again, but this time it was different—less like breaking, more like opening. He leaned into Eddie, and Eddie wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close.
“I don’t know how to believe you,” Buck whispered.
“That’s okay,” Eddie said. “I’ll say it until you do. Every day if I have to.”
They sat like that for a long time, Eddie’s hand rubbing slow circles on Buck’s back, Buck’s breath evening out against his shoulder.
From down the hall, they heard Theo’s voice: “Is Unc’ Buck still sad?”
And Christopher’s reply: “No, I think Dad’s fixing it.”
“How?”
“He’s telling him stuff. Grown-up stuff. Love stuff.”
“Oh.” A pause. “Is that like when I tell him he’s my best friend?”
“Yeah, buddy. Exactly like that.”
Eddie pressed his smile into Buck’s hair. “Hear that? You’re his best friend.”
Buck’s laugh was watery, but it was real. “I’m your best friend too,” he mumbled into Eddie’s shirt.
“I know,” Eddie said. “That’s why I’m keeping you.”
“I’m gonna go get them in bed and then we can watch a film yeah?” Eddie looked down at buck as he started getting up, buck nodded as Eddie placed a kiss on his forehead.
“Can I pick.” Buck spoke softly like he was scared to speak,
“of course bubs.” Eddie placed his hand under bucks chin, leaving a kiss on bucks lips before leaving the room to get the kids into bed.
The apartment was finally quiet.
Eddie had checked on both boys twice—once right after putting Christopher to bed, and again twenty minutes later, just to be sure. Theo was curled up in his own room, one hand tucked under his pillow, breathing slow and even. Christopher was sprawled across his bed like a starfish, book still open on his chest. Eddie had closed it gently and left the lamp on dim.
When he came back downstairs, Buck had already picked a movie. Something easy. Familiar. One of those animated films they'd both seen a dozen times.
"You okay with this?" Buck asked, already settled into the corner of the couch.
"Sure," Eddie said, and meant it.
He sat down beside him, and Buck immediately shifted into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was wearing one of Eddie's hoodies—the gray one with the frayed cuff—and his legs were tucked up under him. Eddie draped an arm around his shoulders, thumb brushing absently over the fabric.
The movie played. Neither of them really watched.
Eddie noticed everything. The way Buck's knee bounced. The way his fingers kept finding the cuff of the hoodie and picking at the threads. The way he laughed at a joke that wasn't even that funny—a little too loud, a little too sharp.
Eddie didn't say anything. Not yet. He just let Buck have his normalcy, whatever that looked like tonight.
Buck reached for Eddie's hand.
It happened casually, like he wasn't even thinking about it. His fingers found Eddie's, and then they found the rings on Eddie's middle and index fingers. He started twisting one of them—slowly, mindlessly—pushing it halfway off, then sliding it back into place. Then he did it again. And again.
Eddie let him.
Buck always did this when he was overwhelmed. He'd find Eddie's hands and just… fiddle. He'd worn a groove into Eddie's titanium wedding band over the years, the one he'd never asked about but always played with.
"You don't have to pretend with me," Eddie said quietly.
Buck's hand stilled for half a second. "I'm not."
"Okay."
Eddie didn't argue. He just kissed Buck's temple and kept holding him.
A few minutes passed. The movie's soundtrack swelled. Buck's eyes started watering, and he blinked it away so fast Eddie almost missed it.
Almost.
"Come here," Eddie said softly.
Buck looked at him, confused. "I'm already here."
"Come here," Eddie said again, and opened his arms.
Buck hesitated—just a breath—and then shifted properly into him. Eddie pulled him against his chest, and Buck curled into him like he'd been waiting for permission. His face pressed into Eddie's neck, his knees knocked against Eddie's thighs, and his hands found Eddie's shirt and held on.
Eddie kissed the top of his head.
"I'm okay," Buck whispered into his collarbone.
"I know you're trying to be."
That got a tiny, broken laugh out of him. It was small, but it was real.
Buck's hand found Eddie's again. His fingers immediately went back to the rings—twisting, sliding, pushing, pulling. Eddie watched him do it. His hands were slightly shaky.
"You can keep playing with them," Eddie said gently.
"I'm going to break one."
"You've been doing this for years. I think they'll survive."
Buck smiled faintly, and Eddie deliberately relaxed his hand, letting Buck do whatever he needed. After a moment, Eddie pulled one of the rings off—the silver one with the brushed finish—and pressed it into Buck's palm.
Buck looked down at it, then up at Eddie. "You're letting me play with it?"
"They're just rings, baby."
The implication hung in the air between them: You matter more.
Buck closed his fingers around it and went back to turning it over in his hand.
They sat like that for a long time. The movie became background noise—color and sound that neither of them was tracking. Eddie's hand moved in slow, steady circles over Buck's back. Buck's breathing was shallow, like he was holding something in.
Then, quietly: "He really meant it."
Eddie's hand kept moving. "I know."
"He said he'd rather have Daniel."
Eddie's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed even. "I heard him."
Buck started talking in fragments. Not a speech. Just pieces. Things he'd been turning over in his head all afternoon.
"Maybe he was right."
"Maybe I really am too much."
"Maybe I shouldn't have agreed to take Theo."
"Maybe I'm just going to make things worse."
"What if I'm teaching him all the wrong things?"
"Buck."
"What if I'm just seeing myself in him and—"
"Buck." Eddie cupped his face gently and turned it toward him. "Look at me."
Buck did. His eyes were glassy, his lower lip trembling slightly.
"You have ADHD," Eddie said.
Buck blinked. "Yeah. And?"
"And that means your brain works differently. It doesn't mean there's something wrong with you."
Buck's eyes filled. He tried to blink it away again, but this time it didn't work.
"You forget things," Eddie continued. "You lose things. You get distracted. You talk too fast. You interrupt. You get overwhelmed. Sometimes you can't sit still."
Buck looked down. "Exactly."
Eddie lifted his chin. "And none of those things make you bad."
Buck's voice cracked. "They made me bad to them."
"They were wrong."
Simple. Certain. No hesitation.
Eddie reminded him of what he'd seen today. Watched him with Theo the whole afternoon.
"He knocked over his drink and immediately started apologizing," Eddie said. "You didn't get angry. You didn't tell him to be careful. You didn't tell him he was being difficult. You got down on the floor and helped him clean it up."
Buck's eyes closed.
"You knew exactly why he was panicking."
"Because I know what that feels like."
"Exactly." Eddie stroked his hair. "You didn't see a difficult kid. You saw a kid who was scared he'd done something wrong."
Buck started crying quietly. Not the loud, messy kind—the kind that leaked out when you'd been trying too hard to hold it in.
"I don't want him to feel like I did," he whispered.
"He won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because he has you."
Buck shook his head. "What if I'm not enough?"
"You are."
"What if I mess him up?"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." Eddie kissed his forehead. "That's enough for me."
Buck's breath hitched. He started talking again, smaller this time. The words his parents had used. The labels they'd hung on him like ornaments. Difficult. Selfish. Too much. Not enough. Daniel was better.
Eddie countered every single one.
"You're not difficult."
"You're not selfish."
"You're not too much."
"You're not broken."
"And you don't have to be Daniel."
Buck whispered, "why was I never was enough for them?"
"You never had to be enough for them." Eddie smiled softly. "You just have to be Buck."
Buck's face crumpled. The tears came faster now, and he tried to pull away—embarrassed, probably—but Eddie held him steady.
"Hey."
"Sorry."
"No."
"I'm sorry."
"No apologies."
"I can't stop."
"Then don't." Eddie pulled him closer, wrapped both arms around him. "Come on, baby. Let it out."
Buck buried his face in Eddie's chest and finally let go. The sobs came in waves, and Eddie just held him through every single one. He didn't tell him it was okay. He didn't tell him to calm down. He just held him.
"I've got you."
"You're safe."
"You don't have to hold it together anymore."
"You can be sad. You can be angry. You can cry. You can be as much as you need to be."
Buck cried until he couldn't anymore.
When the tears finally slowed, he didn't move. He stayed exactly where he was—tucked into Eddie, face pressed into his shirt. His hand found Eddie's again, and he started twisting the ring he was still holding.
Eddie kissed his forehead. And then again. And then again.
Buck sniffled. "I'm getting your shirt wet."
"It's a shirt."
"I know."
"I have other shirts."
"You like this one."
"I like you more."
Buck gave him the tiniest smile, and Eddie counted it as a win.
Eventually, Buck stretched out until he was practically lying on top of Eddie. Head on his chest. One leg tangled with Eddie's. Fingers still wrapped around Eddie's hand, the ring still pressed into his palm.
"You're squished," Buck said.
"I'm fine."
"Your leg is bent weird."
"Buck."
"What?"
"Go to sleep."
"I'm watching the movie."
Eddie looked at the television. "You haven't looked at it in twenty minutes."
"I'm listening."
Eddie smiled. "Sure you are."
Buck's eyes were already heavy. He was fighting it—Eddie could tell—but his body was done holding up the walls.
"You really don't think there's anything wrong with me?" Buck asked, voice thick with sleep.
"No."
"Not even with the ADHD?"
"Especially not that." Eddie kissed his forehead. "It's part of you." Another kiss. "And I love all of you."
Buck's fingers tightened around the ring.
"There isn't a version of you I don't want," Eddie said.
“You mean that.”
Eddie knows exactly what he’s asking.
Not do you mean you love me?
He means:
Do you really think I’m enough?
“Every single day.”
Buck swallows.
“Even when I’m—”
“Yes.”
“Even when I forget things?”
“Yes.”
“Even when I can’t—”
“Buck.”
Eddie lifts his chin.
“You don’t have to list all the ways you think you’re broken so I can tell you you’re not.”
Buck’s eyes fill.
Eddie kisses his forehead.
“You’re enough, Evan.”
Buck's breathing evened out. His hand stayed curled around Eddie's fingers, the ring warm between their palms. His body went heavy and loose, finally letting go.
Eddie didn't move.
The movie played on. Somewhere upstairs, Christopher was dreaming, and Theo was curled up in a bed that was safe and warm. The apartment was peaceful again. The day had been terrible, but the night was soft.
Buck was safe in Eddie's arms, his fingers were still curled around Eddie’s ring.
Eddie could have taken it back.
He didn’t.
He simply tightened his arm around Buck and pressed one last kiss to his hair.
“You’re enough, Evan,” he whispered, even though Buck was already asleep.
And for tonight, that was enough.