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Buck doesn’t know exactly when it starts. Maybe it’s in April—a passing comment from someone, a commercial on TV, a casual conversation at the firehouse about brunch reservations and flower deliveries. Or maybe it’s earlier than that, creeping in quietly, unnoticed, curling around the edges of his mind.
Or maybe it’s now , when a single Mother’s Day card display catches his eye at Target—rows of pastel envelopes and flowery script, shouting For the World’s Best Mom!
It’s not like he means to stop. He’s just walking through the store, side by side with Eddie, picking up a few things for the week. It’s a normal day. It should feel normal . But then, he sees it—that damn display—and suddenly, something inside him twists so hard it leaves him breathless.
The words blur together, pink and gold smudges that mock him, press into the raw, bruised parts of him he thought had healed.
The grief is different now. Slower. Subtler. It seeps into his bones before he even realizes it’s there, turning his limbs heavy, his breath just a little too shallow.
He doesn’t understand it. It’s been nine months since his mom died, and for the most part, he’s fine. Better than fine , even. That week of complicated grief—of breakdowns, apple pie and snow—feels like a lifetime ago. He made it through. He put himself back together. He learned how to carry what he couldn’t put down.
And yet, here he is.
Standing in Target, staring blankly at a display of greeting cards, feeling like someone has reached inside his chest and squeezed.
It doesn’t make sense . Mother’s Day was never a big deal for him. In recent years it had been just another box to check—find a card, sign his name, mail it out with just enough time for it to arrive before the second Sunday in May. No warmth, no heartfelt messages, no fond memories of breakfast in bed or hand-drawn pictures hung on the fridge.
It wasn’t something he ever looked forward to .
So why does the sight of those cards make his throat close up? Why does his heart start to race, his fingers curling uselessly at his sides?
The feeling presses in, heavy and suffocating. It’s not just grief. It’s anger . Raw and unexpected.
At what, he doesn’t even know.
At the display? At the people around him, blissfully unaware? At his mother, for never being the kind of mom who made Mother’s Day mean something? For dying? Or at himself, for wanting— for still wanting , even after everything—for something he was never going to have?
His vision tunnels. The crowds around him blur, the hum of conversation fades into white noise, and the air suddenly feels too thick. His hands clench. His jaw locks. The burn behind his eyes turns sharper, more insistent.
And then—
"Buck?"
A familiar voice.
Steady. Certain.
Eddie. Eddie. Eddie.
The tension in Buck’s body eases, just a little. The world tilts back into focus. Eddie’s hand is warm and solid where it rests against his hip, fingers curling slightly like he’s ready to hold him there, to keep him tethered if he needs it.
Buck blinks. Swallows hard.
Eddie’s looking at him, quiet and patient, his eyes filled with something that looks a lot like understanding. He knows. Of course, he does. Eddie always knows . But he doesn’t push, doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He just waits .
Buck forces a weak smile, pretending like his chest isn’t aching.
“Snacks?” he says, tilting his head toward the candy aisle like nothing just happened.
Eddie doesn’t call him out on it. He lets Buck have the out. Instead, his fingers brush lightly against Buck’s hand—a small, grounding touch before their hands intertwine fully, like second nature.
The ugly feeling in Buck’s chest doesn’t disappear.
But for now, he ignores it.
He should be fine.
He is fine.
He has Eddie now, and despite the nine months that have passed, they’re still in the honeymoon phase—still unable to keep their hands off each other, still basking in the newness of it all. It’s easy to get lost in that, in the warmth of Eddie’s body pressed against his, in the way Eddie looks at him like he’s something worth holding on to.
And maybe, that’s enough.
Except—it’s not.
The anger stays, curling low and hot in Buck’s chest, coiling around his ribs like something alive. It lingers beneath his skin, an irritation he can’t scratch away, an ache he doesn’t know how to soothe.
He doesn’t understand it—not really. It’s been nine months since his mom died. He’s grieved. He’s made his peace—or at least, as much peace as he can. He doesn’t want to be stuck here, circling the same thoughts over and over like a song on repeat.
But he can’t shake it. It’s like his brain has latched onto a single, relentless fact: She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead.
And the worst part? He’s not even sure what he’s angry about .
Is it her? The way she was distant and cold for most of his life, only to leave behind a complicated mess of emotions he still hasn’t sorted through? Is it himself? For feeling this much at all? For caring , when he spent so much of his childhood convincing himself he didn’t?
Or is it just the world in general? For Mother’s Day—for its pastel cards and floral displays, for the cheery commercials full of picture-perfect families that make it seem so damn easy .
It’s not easy. It was never easy.
So, yeah, maybe he’s angry at all of it.
And maybe that anger is why he’s here.
He’s at Maddie’s, for no particular reason other than Eddie is busy, and Buck is bored—or at least, that’s the excuse he’s settled on. The truth is, he doesn’t want to be alone. The silence is too much today, pressing in on him from all sides, heavy with everything he doesn’t want to think about. So he’s here, letting himself get lost in the warmth of his sister’s home, in the sound of Jee’s laughter, in the simple comfort of not being by himself .
Since coming back from Hershey, things between him and Maddie feel... different. Closer. Like grief has tangled them together in ways it hadn’t before. There’s an ease between them now, not built on careful words or tiptoeing around pain, but on shared understanding. They don’t always have to talk about it. Sometimes, just existing in the same space is enough.
But right now, it doesn’t feel like enough.
Buck leans against the kitchen counter, watching as Maddie chases Jee around. Jee shrieks with delight, her giggles bubbling up like something weightless and free.
And Buck—Buck smiles , because how can he not? But there’s something twisting inside him, sharp and unfamiliar.
It takes him a second to recognize it.
Jealousy.
And God, what the hell does he do with that ?
It’s ridiculous. He loves Jee, loves Maddie, loves that she gets to have this—this soft, easy kind of love, the kind he never had growing up. It’s not even that he wishes that his mom was here. It’s the same feeling he had months ago, that he’s grieving the idea of a mom more than his actual mom. It fills him with an uneasy sort of guilt that adds another complex layer to the grief he thought he left behind in Hershey.
He continues to watch Maddie, the uncomfortable emotions twisting around inside him.
He never had a mother who scooped him up like that. Never had that effortless kind of love, that unshakable certainty that someone wanted him. His childhood was careful smiles and stiff hugs, obligatory phone calls and the gnawing sense that he was always a little too much, always something to be managed rather than cherished .
And now, she’s gone.
Now, she’s gone, and he’ll never get to ask her why.
He swallows hard, his throat tight.
“Buck?” Maddie’s voice pulls him back, cutting through the haze of his thoughts.
He blinks, dragging his gaze away from Jee. He hadn’t even realized he’d zoned out. Maddie is watching him now, brow furrowed, concern written all over her face,
“You okay?” Maddie asks, softer this time.
Buck clears his throat, forces a smile. “Yeah,” he says automatically. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Maddie doesn’t buy it. Of course, she doesn’t. She just gives him that look —the one that says I know you, Buck. I know when you’re lying.
And he hates it.
Hates how it fuels the anger, how it presses against his ribs like something suffocating. It makes his skin feel too tight, his chest too small, like there’s not enough room for all the emotions warring inside him. The defensiveness starts to build, bubbling up hot and sharp, and he’s not even sure why.
Why he suddenly feels like a cornered animal. Why he wants to snap, to push, to fight .
It’s irrational. He knows that. Maddie isn’t the enemy. She never has been. But right now, the way she’s looking at him—like she’s peeling him apart layer by layer, like she sees too much —it makes something inside him itch.
He doesn’t want to be seen right now. Doesn’t want to be known.
Maddie studies him for another moment before she shifts her focus, pressing a kiss to Jee’s cheek. “Why don’t you go see what Papa’s up to?” she whispers, smoothing a hand over Jee’s curls. Jee grins, then sprints down the hall in a fit of giggles.
And then it’s just them.
The silence settles between them, heavy and thick in a way it hasn’t been for months.
It’s his fault. He knows that.
Maddie exhales, and when she speaks, her voice is careful. Too careful.
“It’s Mother’s Day next week…”
Buck flinches. It’s slight—just a shift of his shoulders, a tiny flicker of movement—but Maddie notices . Of course, she does.
And God , he hates this. Hates that she has to tiptoe around him like he’s some fragile thing that might shatter at any moment. Hates that the grief hasn’t stayed in Hershey like he thought it would. Like he hoped it would.
He grips the counter a little tighter, the tension in his muscles locking him in place. “Yeah…” he mumbles, staring down at his hands.
He feels… off. Unsteady. Like he’s on the verge of something, but he doesn’t know what .
He feels like he’s about to cry , and he doesn’t understand .
Because he barely cried when she died. Only the day of the funeral, and even then, it had felt more like exhaustion than grief. More like relief .
So why now?
Why does it feel like there’s something clawing at his insides, like there’s a knot in his chest that won’t come undone? Why is there so much anger —burning, relentless, impossible to pin down?
Why does he feel like screaming and sobbing and breaking something all at once?
Maddie waits, patient and steady, just like she always is. She doesn’t push, doesn’t demand that he explain himself, and somehow, that only makes it worse.
Because maybe, if she did push, he’d finally have something to direct all this anger at. Something tangible. Someone. Maybe then he could get the rage out of his system, feel like he's in control of it instead of this twisted, tangled mess of emotions that has him choking on his own thoughts.
“What do you want me to say, Maddie?” Buck’s voice comes out sharp, too sharp. “It’s Mother’s Day, and my mom’s dead… but she was never really my mom, was she?”
There’s a bite to his words. He doesn’t mean it—at least not fully—but he says it anyway, hoping for a reaction, something that will let him release this tight, aching coil inside him. He’s still bracing himself for an argument, for her to get angry, to push him, to challenge him. But she doesn’t.
Of course, she doesn’t.
Maddie’s expression softens. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t step back. Instead, she takes one step closer, her voice a quiet murmur. “Buck…”
“No, I mean it.” He lets out a bitter laugh that’s more of a sob than a chuckle. He scrubs a hand down his face, trying to ground himself, but the words are out of his control now. “She wasn’t—” His throat tightens painfully, his chest constricting with the effort to hold it all in. “She wasn’t really my mom. Not in the way that matters.”
The words feel jagged and wrong, like they’ve been shoved into his chest and he can’t quite get them out fast enough. His voice cracks as he looks up at Maddie, and suddenly, he feels exposed—too vulnerable. The tears are slow to come, but they’re there, rolling down his cheek, and he hates it.
“Oh Evan,” Maddie murmurs, her voice filled with tenderness as she places a hand on his arm, rubbing it in soft, soothing circles.
But it doesn’t help. It only makes him want to pull away, to hide it all, to shut it down.
“It’s not…” Buck’s voice rises a little, rawer now, frustration mixing with the grief. “I shouldn’t be feeling like this. I should be there for Chris… for you... for people who deserve to grieve their moms. But I’m so angry... I hate this, I hate her .”
The words spill out of him before he can stop them, a confession he wasn’t ready to make. It’s like the floodgates have cracked open, and once the words are out, he can’t take them back. They hang between them, heavy and charged.
Maddie flinches. Her face crumples slightly, like she’s been struck, and Buck feels a pang of guilt twist through him. He wants to apologize, wants to take it all back, but he doesn’t. He can’t.
The silence that falls is thick. Buck swallows, his chest tight, but the words stick.
“I’m going to go,” Buck says, his voice small and hoarse.
He turns, heading for the door, not looking at her. Maddie calls his name, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. It’s the one thing he learned from his mom— run when things get too hard, when the emotions get too messy to deal with.
He reaches the door, pulls it open, and the fresh air hits him like a shock. The moment he gets into his Jeep, the weight of the world crashes back down on him. The silence inside the car is deafening, suffocating, like it’s pressing in from every direction.
His hands grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white, but it doesn’t help. His chest is tight, his breath shallow and uneven.
And then the sobs come—raw and jagged.
They rip out of him before he can stop them, each one more desperate than the last. His head falls to the steering wheel, his forehead pressed against the cool leather as his body trembles with each painful breath.
Tears blur his vision, falling faster than he can wipe them away, soaking his hoodie, his cheeks, his shirt. It’s all too much. The grief. The anger. The confusion. It’s too sharp, too relentless .
He can’t breathe. His chest heaves, the air caught somewhere in the back of his throat, trying to find its way out. But there’s no space for it. There’s no room for anything but the crushing weight of it all.
Why does it feel like he’s drowning? Why is it that, even now, after everything, the rage still burns?
~
Buck does eventually calm down. He makes it back home, to Eddie’s house because the loft hasn’t been his for a while now. He finds himself sitting down on the patio, legs stretched out in front of him, palms pressed flat on the stone tiles beneath him, as if he could ground himself in the stillness of the space. The sun is out—bright and warm—but it does little to thaw the cold anger still simmering in his chest. All these jagged, conflicting emotions that he doesn’t know how to handle.
He tries to breathe, but each inhale feels like it gets stuck somewhere deep in his ribs. She's dead. She's dead. She’s dead. The thoughts echo in his mind again, and his stomach churns with the sick realization that he can’t stop them. He can’t stop feeling the weight of her death like it’s pressing on his chest. It’s so goddamn suffocating.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there. The sun shifts across the sky, the day quietly slipping away as he stays frozen, lost in his own thoughts. The noise of the world continues around him, but he feels separate from it, as if loss to the grief that shouldn’t belong to him. His phone buzzes a few times, but he doesn’t look at it. The silence is easier to handle than anything else.
Eventually, he hears the back door open. Footsteps—steady, familiar. He doesn’t have to look up to know it’s Eddie.
The sound of Eddie’s voice comes gently, like a soft pull from the darkness. “Hey.”
Buck doesn’t respond right away. He’s not sure what to say. What could he say when all he feels is this gnawing, unrelenting tension that he doesn’t know how to explain? It’s not just sadness. It’s not just anger. It’s something tangled and messy, something he doesn’t know how to put into words. He doesn’t even know if he wants to try.
But then Eddie is there beside him, easing down onto the patio without hesitation. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t push Buck to talk or try to fix whatever this is. He just sits, solid and steady, like he always does. Like he knows Buck needs him here, even if Buck hasn’t said a word. Their sides brush together, and Eddie leans in slightly, letting his head rest on Buck’s shoulder.
Buck exhales, slow and unsteady.
The warmth of Eddie’s presence is the first thing that feels real all day.
They sit there in silence. It stretches between them, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that tells Buck that Eddie gets it—understands without needing to say anything. And that makes Buck feel… lighter, in a way. Not fixed, not okay, but like maybe he’s not drowning alone in this. Like maybe, even if the grief and anger and confusion don’t go away, at least he doesn’t have to hold them by himself.
Buck’s shoulders are still tense, the weight of the day pressing down on him, but Eddie doesn’t rush him. He just lets Buck be . And maybe that’s why Buck finally speaks.
“Chris okay?” Buck asks, his voice low, scratchy.
Eddie lifts his head, straightening just enough to look at him. There’s something unreadable in his gaze—something soft, something knowing. Instead of answering right away, he reaches for Buck’s hand. His fingers slide into Buck’s easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And Buck—Buck feels his heart skip a beat.
It’s something small, just a touch, but it means something. It’s grounding, steadying. It reminds Buck that he’s here , that he’s not alone, that whatever this storm inside him is, Eddie isn’t afraid to sit through it with him.
“Yeah,” Eddie says softly, brushing his thumb over the back of Buck’s hand in a slow, deliberate motion. “In his room, doing homework.”
Buck nods, but the answer only makes the guilt settle heavier in his chest.
Chris is fourteen. He’s lost his mom, and yet somehow he’s handling his grief better than Buck is. How is that fair? Buck thought he’d figured all of this out in Hershey—thought he’d made peace with the past, with his mom, with everything. But today has proven that grief isn’t something you just fix . It doesn’t disappear just because you want it to.
“I thought I was over this…” Buck mumbles, voice barely above a whisper. He blinks hard, his eyes stinging again, and frustration curls in his chest. Why is he crying more on some random day in May than he did when she first died?
Eddie is quiet for a moment, studying him. Then, gently, he says, “I don’t think this is something you can ever really get over .”
Buck swallows, his throat tight. “Then what the hell am I supposed to do with it?”
Eddie’s grip on his hand tightens slightly, grounding. “You talk about it,” he says simply. “You don’t have to bottle it up. We’ve been over this, Buck. Grief isn’t linear. There’s no right or wrong way to feel it.”
Buck lets out a breath, shaking his head. “I don’t even know what I feel. I’m just—” He makes a vague, frustrated motion with his free hand. “I’m so fucking angry. And I don’t even know why. I shouldn’t care this much. She wasn’t—” His voice catches, and he hates it, hates how raw it all feels. “She wasn’t even really my mom.”
Eddie doesn’t argue. He doesn’t try to correct him or tell him he’s wrong for feeling the way he does. Instead, he holds Buck’s gaze, unwavering.
“If you want to be pissed off, be pissed off,” Eddie says, voice steady. “If you want to be sad, be sad. If you don’t know what you feel—then let yourself not know . Whatever it is, just let yourself feel it .”
Buck blinks, and something in him cracks wide open. Because it’s so simple, and yet it’s everything he’s needed to hear.
Eddie squeezes his hand again, firm and sure. “You don’t have to do this alone, Buck. You never have to do anything alone.”
Buck swallows hard, his throat burning. Eddie’s words settle deep, like something solid in the middle of the storm.
You don’t have to do this alone.
Maybe that’s the part that stings the most—because for so long, Buck has done things alone. He’s carried grief, anger, loneliness, always trying to be the one who doesn’t need help, who figures things out on his own. But today, he feels stripped raw, like all the walls he usually throws up have crumbled without warning.
And Eddie is still here.
He hasn’t looked away. He hasn’t let go.
Buck drops his gaze, staring at their joined hands. Eddie’s palm is warm against his, grounding in a way Buck didn’t know he needed. His breath stutters, uneven, like his body can’t decide whether to hold it all in or let it all out.
“I don’t know how to let myself feel it,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “Every time I try, it—it just hurts .” His fingers twitch against Eddie’s, curling slightly like he’s bracing for impact. “And then I get angry, and then I feel like I shouldn’t be angry, and it just—” He clenches his jaw, forcing back the frustrated shake in his voice. “It never stops.”
Eddie doesn’t say anything right away. He just nods, his thumb still tracing slow, steady circles over the back of Buck’s hand. It’s a quiet reassurance— I hear you. I get it.
And Buck knows he does.
“You don’t have to figure it out today,” Eddie says finally, voice soft but sure. “You just have to let yourself be in it. Even if it sucks. Even if it doesn’t make sense.”
Buck lets out a shaky laugh, rubbing his free hand over his face. His skin feels raw, stretched too thin. “I hate this,” he mutters, voice cracking at the edges.
“I know.” Eddie shifts slightly, pressing their shoulders together in a light, familiar weight. “But you don’t have to hate it alone.”
And that —that’s what undoes him. Not the grief, not the guilt, not the anger that’s been clawing at his ribs all day— this . This quiet, unwavering care. The way Eddie just knows without Buck having to explain, the way he stays, steady and unshaken, like he’s never even considered walking away.
Buck’s breath catches, chest tight, and before he can stop it, the tears spill over, hot and unchecked. His shoulders shake as the weight of it all—years of hurt, of wanting something he was never really given, of trying to be okay when he wasn’t—crashes down on him.
And Eddie doesn’t let go. He doesn’t move away. Instead, he tightens his grip on Buck’s hand, anchoring him as he falls apart.
The quiet creak of the back door makes them both turn.
Chris steps out, careful but deliberate. He doesn’t say anything. Just leans his crutches against the wall before lowering himself down next to Buck. There’s a moment where he hesitates, then—slowly, deliberately—he leans into Buck’s side, tucking himself against him in a way he hasn’t done in a while.
Buck swallows hard, blinking through the tears. “Hey, buddy.”
Chris doesn’t answer right away. He just exhales, slow and steady, before murmuring, “You’re gonna be okay, kid.”
The words are familiar, an echo of something they both said over the years. It makes Buck laugh—wet and shaky, but real. Chris just huffs softly, nudging him with his elbow like he’s daring Buck to argue.
And for the first time all day, Buck doesn’t feel quite so lost.
The three of them sit there in silence, watching as the sun sinks lower in the sky. The air cools around them, but the warmth between them lingers—steady, constant. The weight in Buck’s chest eases, not gone, but softer now. The anger doesn’t burn quite as hot. The grief doesn’t feel quite as suffocating.
Instead, there’s love.
There’s family.
~
Buck was stupid enough to think it wouldn’t last. That one bad day would be the end of this Mother’s Day fiasco, that he could cry it out and be fine again. That Eddie’s steady presence and Chris’s quiet reassurance would be enough to pull him through.
But as Sunday approaches, it’s like he’s spiraling all over again.
He tries. He really tries to listen to Eddie—to let himself feel, to sit with the anger and the grief like Eddie told him to—but it’s messy. It’s tangled and complicated and exhausting. And the longer he lets himself sit in it, the more he feels like he’s unraveling.
So he does the only thing that has ever felt safe.
He avoids it.
He doesn’t call Maddie to apologize. He knows he should, knows she deserves better than his silence, but every time he picks up the phone, he freezes. Because what is he even supposed to say? Sorry for saying I hate Mom? Sorry for letting it slip in the worst way possible? Sorry for meaning it?
He doesn’t know. So he says nothing at all.
And Eddie—Eddie, who knows him, who sees him in ways no one else ever has—Buck keeps him at arm’s length too. It’s not easy, not when Eddie is always there , watching him carefully, reading between the lines of his shitty excuses. But Buck does it anyway. He sleeps at the loft even though it doesn’t feel like home anymore. He skips the end-of-shift breakfasts at the Diaz house. He dodges Eddie’s texts, answers with clipped responses when he has to, makes up excuses when Eddie shows up at his door with takeout and that concerned look Buck can’t stand right now.
Because if he lets Eddie too close, Eddie will see .
See the way Buck is barely holding himself together, see the broken, messy parts that Buck is barely keeping from spilling over. And maybe Eddie has seen him like that before, maybe Buck has let him see it before, but this—this feels different. This isn’t a crisis, a singular event to be talked through and processed. This is something rotting inside him, something Buck doesn’t know how to fix.
And he doesn’t want Eddie to get sick of waiting for him to figure it out.
The worst part is, Buck knows he’s screwing things up.
He knows it every time he ignores a text from Maddie that he wants to answer, but can't. Every time he pulls away from Eddie’s touch when all he wants to do is lean in . Every time he watches Eddie watch him , that patient, knowing look in his eyes that makes Buck feel like he’s being seen even when he’s trying so hard not to be.
He knows it, and yet he can’t seem to stop.
Because the truth is, avoiding the pain is easier than dealing with it. Even if it means keeping Eddie at arm’s length. Even if it means pretending he doesn’t see the hurt flicker across Eddie’s face when Buck shuts down conversations before they can start.
Eddie won’t get mad. Buck knows that. He’ll be patient and kind and understanding. He’ll give Buck space, even when Buck doesn’t ask for it.
And that just makes Buck feel worse.
Because Eddie deserves someone who lets him in . Someone who doesn’t shut down the second things get hard. And right now, Buck doesn’t know how to be that person.
By Friday, Buck can feel it coming—the conversation he’s been avoiding.
It’s in the way Eddie watches him during calls, like he’s trying to find the right moment to pull Buck aside. It’s in the way Eddie lingers after shift, hanging back just a little longer than usual. Buck knows Eddie’s waiting for him to ask for help, to say something— anything .
He doesn’t.
So Eddie makes the first move.
Buck’s half-distracted, stacking gear in the locker room, when Eddie steps in behind him—quiet but deliberate. Strong arms slide around his waist, warm and steady. Eddie’s chin comes to rest on his shoulder, and Buck feels the soft huff of his breath against his neck.
“Hey, stranger,” Eddie murmurs, teasing and familiar, his voice low enough to curl warm in Buck’s chest.
And just like that, Buck feels something inside him unravel.
He wants to push Eddie away—he should push Eddie away—but instead he leans back, lets himself melt into the solid warmth of Eddie’s body. It’s instinct, like muscle memory, and God, he’s missed this. He’s missed him .
The smile comes before Buck can stop it, small and tired but real. He lets his eyes close, just for a second, and breathes Eddie in—the scent of soap and faint traces of smoke, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the comfort of being held .
But the moment doesn’t last. The guilt slams into him, sharp and cold.
He’s been keeping Eddie at arm’s length for days, maybe weeks—and now here Eddie is, still giving him warmth and comfort like Buck deserves it. Like Buck hasn’t spent the past week dodging him, sinking deeper into his own head.
Buck tenses, muscles going tight under Eddie’s touch.
“I should—I should get going,” he says, voice thin and unconvincing. He tries to pull away, but Eddie holds firm—not forceful, just steady .
“You sure?” Eddie’s voice is quieter now, softer. Not teasing anymore—just concerned .
Buck hates how easily Eddie sees through him. How he always knows when Buck’s barely holding it together.
“I’m fine,” Buck lies, because that’s easier than admitting the truth—admitting that he feels like he’s unraveling at the seams and he doesn’t know how to stop it.
But Eddie doesn’t let go. He shifts slightly, one hand sliding up to press over Buck’s heart, palm warm and solid through his shirt.
“You don’t have to pretend,” Eddie says softly. “Not with me.”
It’s something Buck once said to Eddie years ago, back when their lives were different, before they had words for what they meant to each other. And now, hearing it from Eddie—quiet, steady, true —Buck feels something deep inside him start to crack.
Because Eddie isn’t asking for explanations. He isn’t demanding answers or pushing Buck to talk before he’s ready. He’s just there , patient and unwavering, the way he always is.
Buck exhales, slow and shaky. He lets some of the tension bleed from his shoulders, but Eddie doesn’t let go. Instead, he grips him a little tighter, pressing his palm over Buck’s heart like he’s trying to hold him together.
“I love you,” Eddie whispers, and Buck’s throat tightens instantly, the words unraveling him in a way nothing else has.
The tears burn before he even realizes they’re there.
“Don’t forget that.”
Buck swallows hard, eyes stinging. “I love you,” he murmurs back, voice hoarse.
Eddie lingers, just for a second, his fingers pressing gently into Buck’s side before he finally pulls away. But he doesn’t go far—his hand stays on Buck’s hip, warm and grounding.
“Come on,” Eddie says softly, his voice like an anchor. “Let’s go home.”
The drive is quiet, but not tense. It’s the kind of silence filled with understanding, with presence . The hum of the tires against the pavement, the distant glow of the city—everything feels quieter at this hour, like the world is giving Buck room to breathe.
By the time they pull into Eddie’s driveway, Buck feels wrung out. Carla offers them a knowing look and a gentle goodnight before leaving. Chris is already in bed, the house still and warm in the way it always is.
They grab a couple of beers and make their way to the patio. The night air is cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and fresh-cut grass. The only light comes from the glow spilling through the kitchen window, casting soft shadows around them.
They sit on the steps. Eddie doesn’t hesitate, leaning into Buck’s space like he belongs there. Like he’s meant to be here, pressed close in the quiet, holding Buck steady without even trying.
Buck exhales slowly, the crisp air filling his lungs, mixing with the warmth of Eddie beside him. The tension lingers, but it’s different now—not sharp, not suffocating.
For a while, they just sit, their beers untouched, condensation gathering against the glass. The city hums faintly in the distance, but the neighborhood is quiet.
Eddie’s knee knocks against Buck’s—just a small thing, a casual point of contact—but Buck clings to it. Eddie has always been like this, with Christopher, with him. Never pushing, never forcing his way in. Just there .
Buck stares down at the beer bottle in his hands, watching how the dim light catches the amber liquid inside.
“Are we going to talk about it?” Eddie asks eventually. His voice is calm, steady. There’s no push, no frustration. Just patience.
Buck shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “What’s there to talk about?” But Eddie sees right through him, of course he does.
Eddie sighs. “Jee and Chris miss you.”
Buck flinches, because it’s not a jab, it’s just true . And Eddie isn’t being cruel, isn’t trying to guilt him. He’s just stating a fact, the way he always does—with honesty, with care.
Then, quieter—so soft Buck almost misses it—Eddie adds, “I miss you.”
Buck looks up at him, and the tears threaten again, stinging hot behind his eyes. God, what’s wrong with him?
“I’m sorry,” Buck murmurs.
Eddie shakes his head before pressing a gentle kiss to Buck’s cheek. “It’s okay,” he says, brushing his thumb along Buck’s jaw, slow and soothing.
Buck leans into the touch, exhausted. “I don’t know why this is affecting me so much,” he admits. “It’s one day. I didn’t even care this much when she was alive.”
Eddie nods, understanding. “Grief is fucking weird,” he says, and there’s a small, knowing smile on his lips. Then, in an attempt to lighten the mood, he mutters, “At least you haven’t met a doppelgänger of Margaret Buckley.”
It’s so unexpected that Buck actually laughs— really laughs, even as the tears spill over. Eddie grins, joining in, and for a moment, the weight lifts.
Buck exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “I feel so angry,” he admits, the words weighted with frustration. “And I don’t know why. Like, in Target, all I wanted to do was go over and rip apart that stupid display. And at Maddie’s the other day, I just—” He clenches his jaw, shaking his head. “I got so angry. And jealous. And I don’t even understand it.”
Eddie watches him, quiet and steady, never rushing him. Just there , like always.
Buck’s mind drifts—back to a time when he was small, hydrangeas clenched in his tiny fists, petals trembling from the force of his grip. He remembers standing in front of his mother, waiting, hoping , for some sign that she cared. That she saw him.
But she didn’t.
His throat tightens. “It wasn’t like I had a mom who did Mother’s Day brunch,” he mutters, voice hollow. “No keepsakes, no framed handprints, no one teaching me to ride a bike. She just—” He swallows hard. “She threw the flowers away. Like they didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.”
The memory is heavy, pressing against his ribs, threatening to drown him. He forces out a breath. “She didn’t love me,” he whispers, more to himself than to Eddie. “So why is she still haunting me?”
Eddie shifts closer, pressing his forehead against Buck’s temple, grounding him.
“Because she was still your mom,” he says gently. “Even if she didn’t do it right. Even if she didn’t deserve you.”
His hand finds Buck’s, fingers threading together easily—like second nature, like a promise.
“You’re allowed to feel this, Buck,” Eddie murmurs. “Even if it doesn’t make sense. Even if it’s messy.”
Buck exhales, shaky and uneven. “It doesn’t feel right,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.
“It never does,” Eddie says softly. He pulls back slightly, hesitation flickering across his face, like he’s debating whether to say something. He takes a breath, and Buck braces himself.
“You said you didn’t have a mom who comforted you after nightmares, or taught you how to ride a bike.” Eddie pauses, watching him carefully. “But you did. Maddie.”
Buck’s chest tightens instantly.
“There weren’t keepsakes,” Eddie continues, “but there were postcards.”
Buck closes his eyes. Because fuck , that hits hard.
Eddie’s right. Margaret Buckley didn’t raise him. Maddie did.
She was the one who held his hand when he was scared. The one who kept him from falling apart. The reason he got out of Hershey. The reason he’s here , right now—sitting on this porch, holding the hand of the man he loves.
His breath stutters as he squeezes Eddie’s fingers, gripping them like a lifeline.
Maybe they are.
They sit like that for a while, the night stretching quiet and endless around them.
And for the first time in days, Buck doesn’t feel quite so lost.
~
Buck wakes up feeling lighter than he has in days.
The guilt, the anger, the grief—they’re still there, humming beneath his skin like a quiet, persistent current. But they aren’t dragging him under anymore. They aren’t consuming him. Instead, they sit with him, manageable in their presence, like shadows that no longer feel so suffocating.
He spends the morning wrapped in Eddie’s arms, trading lazy kisses and soft murmurs, their bodies tangled in the warmth of the sheets. It’s a quiet reassurance— He loves. His life isn’t a punishment, he’s loved.
By the afternoon, there’s a strange itch under his skin, a restless energy that he doesn’t know what to do with. His hands feel empty, and the need to make something claws at him, irrational and insistent.
He wants to make apple pie.
It’s laughable, really—of all things—but when he mentions it, Eddie just lifts an eyebrow before exchanging an amused glance with Christopher.
“Okay,” Eddie says, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world.
So they do.
Chappell Roan plays softly in the background, the upbeat melody blending with the sounds of laughter and the rhythmic chop of apples on the wooden cutting board. The kitchen fills with warmth—not just from the heat of the oven, but from something deeper, something steadier. Chris wears an apron that matches Buck’s, a Christmas present from Eddie that Buck cherishes more than he’ll ever admit. The smell of cinnamon and brown sugar thickens in the air, seeping into the walls, wrapping around them like a memory being made in real time.
“Did you know apple pie dates back as far as the 1300s?” Buck says as they toss the apple slices into the cinnamon-sugar mixture.
Chris looks up at him with a knowing smile. “Are we doing fun facts now?”
Buck grins. “Always.” He drops another piece into the bowl, coating it in the sticky sweetness. “And back then, sugar was too expensive, so they used figs instead.”
Chris raises an eyebrow, clearly indulging him. “Huh. Good to know.”
Eddie, who has been leaning against the counter, watching with amusement, smirks. “Do you just sit on Wikipedia all day?”
Buck scoffs. “Excuse you, I’ll have you know I have a wide variety of sources.”
“Reddit.” Eddie deadpans. “At 3 a.m.”
Chris snickers, and Buck glares at Eddie with absolutely no heat. “Okay, first of all—”
But Eddie just grins, smug and knowing. “Uh-huh. Keep going,”
And the thing is, Buck doesn’t mind. Not really. Maybe the mortifying ordeal of being known isn’t so bad when it’s Eddie.
Chris reaches into the bowl and snags a sugar-coated apple slice, popping it into his mouth with a look of pure mischief.
Something warm and inexplicable unfurls in Buck’s chest.
His hands still in the flour-dusted air, and for a brief second, he’s somewhere else .
Ten years old.
Snow piled high outside.
A house that was never quite home, the cold creeping in through the cracks.
Daniel’s face—a photograph, forever frozen in time—his brother grinning at the camera, eyes bright with a joy Buck never got to know.
For so long, that memory felt like a hand-me-down jacket that didn’t quite fit, something secondhand and ill-fitting, something that belonged to someone else first .
But now, standing here in the kitchen with Christopher, with Eddie watching them like this moment is something precious— because it is —it doesn’t feel like that anymore.
It feels like his .
Like a piece of Daniel that lives in him. A piece of love that he’s carried forward, even when he didn’t realize it.
His mother may have given him the memory, but Buck transformed it with love.
He blinks, anchoring himself back in the present, in the laughter, in the warmth of cinnamon and sugar, in the way Christopher’s eyes crinkle when he grins.
This is what matters.
And for the first time in days, Buck lets himself breathe it in.
~
Sunday isn’t as world-ending as Buck thought it would be.
For all the dread, all the restless nights leading up to this day, it feels strangely…ordinary. The world keeps spinning. The sun rises like it always does. There’s no crushing weight, no all-consuming anger waiting to suffocate him. It’s there—grief, exhaustion, something raw and lingering—but it’s quieter now.
It’s midmorning, Eddie and Christopher have gone to Shannon’s grave and Buck finds himself standing in front of Maddie’s door. sunflowers in his grip. The bright yellow petals feel almost too cheerful for the occasion, but that’s why he picked them. Because they’re Maddie’s favorite. Because she deserves something bright.
He takes a deep breath, the crisp morning air filling his lungs, and knocks.
Maddie answers quickly, and for a second, there’s a flicker of surprise in her eyes—before warmth takes over, before her face softens into something so achingly familiar it makes Buck’s throat go tight.
“Buck,” Maddie breathes, stepping forward, wrapping her arms around him without hesitation.
The embrace is instant, all-consuming , and Buck feels himself sinking into it. There’s something about the way she hugs—like she’s trying to hold all the broken pieces of him together, like she’s making sure he knows she’s here .
The last remnants of his anger dissolve as he closes his eyes and leans into her.
“Hey,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to keep from crushing the sunflowers between them.
Maddie steps aside, wordlessly inviting him in, and he barely takes a step before a familiar, excited voice cuts through the quiet.
“Uncle Buck!”
He barely has time to brace himself before Jee comes barreling into him at full speed, her tiny arms wrapping around his legs like she’s trying to tackle him. She tilts her head back, grinning up at him, eyes bright and full of mischief.
“There’s my favorite girl,” Buck grins as he leans down, scooping her up effortlessly.
Jee rests her hands on his shoulders, eyes flicking behind him curiously. “Where’s Uncle Eddie?”
Buck huffs out a soft laugh. Of course.
“He’s with Chris,” he explains.
Jee’s little face scrunches up in mild disappointment, and with all the dramatic weight of someone decades older than her, she sighs.
“That’s disappointing,” she grumbles, like a weary old woman instead of a four-year-old.
Buck bursts out laughing, carrying her into the kitchen as Maddie shakes her head fondly.
“You’ll see him later,” Buck promises, setting her back down. That seems to satisfy her, because she immediately loses interest and bolts off toward something far more exciting.
God, he loves that kid. Loves her endless energy, her tiny-but-massive personality, the way she just exists so fully, so unapologetically.
When he turns back to Maddie, he can see the worry still lingering in her eyes.
She doesn’t say anything, but he knows her too well—knows she’s been waiting, knows she’s been watching from a distance, letting him come to her when he was ready.
And God , he hates that he made her wait.
“I’m sorry,” Buck says, stepping forward, offering the bouquet.
Maddie takes them carefully, fingers brushing over the soft petals, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. But when she notices the envelope tucked between the stems, she pauses, her brows drawing together in curiosity.
“Buck…” she looks up at him, something unreadable in her eyes.
He swallows hard, suddenly feeling exposed. “Eddie pointed something out to me,” he says, gesturing toward the flowers. “That it wasn’t Mom who raised me. It was you.”
Maddie’s breath catches, her grip on the bouquet tightening just slightly.
Buck takes a shaky breath and pushes forward. “You were the one who took care of me. Who taught me how to ride a bike. Who made sure I was okay, even when you barely had anything left for yourself.” His voice wavers, but he doesn’t stop. “So…I wanted to say thank you. For putting up with my crap. For everything.”
Maddie blinks rapidly, and yeah—there are tears in her eyes now.
Her lips tremble for half a second before she lets out a wobbly laugh, shaking her head, like she’s trying to keep herself together but doesn’t quite have the strength to.
“God, Buck,” Maddie whispers, pressing the bouquet to her chest like it’s something precious, something fragile. Her fingers trace absently over the petals, her gaze flicking between the flowers and Buck as if she’s still trying to process what he just said. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
Buck shrugs, a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “I know. But I wanted to anyway.”
She exhales shakily, setting the flowers down on the counter before reaching for him again, pulling him into another hug—one that he sinks into fully, letting the warmth of it settle into his bones. This time, he holds on just a little tighter.
When she finally pulls away, her hands linger on his arms, as if reluctant to let go. She reaches for the card next, carefully sliding it from between the flowers.
It’s not a traditional Mother’s Day card—because that had felt weird, too formal, too impersonal. Instead, it’s something different. A simple, funny card he found with that dry, self-deprecating millennial humor Maddie loves.
She laughs wetly when she sees it, shaking her head again, but there’s something in her eyes—something raw, something vulnerable. Without a word, she holds out her pinky, a silent invitation, a gesture they’ve had since they were kids.
Buck wraps his pinky around hers without hesitation. The simple touch is so achingly familiar, so deeply woven into their history, that for a moment, he feels ten years old again, trailing behind his big sister, trusting that as long as she was there, everything would be okay.
“Love you,” Maddie says softly, her voice thick with emotion.
“Love you,” Buck responds, barely above a whisper.
And then they’re hugging again, tighter this time, like they’re making up for lost time, for years they should’ve had, for the childhood that forced them apart and the adulthood that brought them back together.
He doesn’t leave. He stays around Maddie’s for the rest of the day, long after the initial weight of emotions settles into something softer, something easier.
By the afternoon, Eddie and Christopher show up, and suddenly, the house is full in a way that makes Buck’s chest feel light. It’s different from the kind of fullness he grew up with—where silence stretched too long, where love was given in measured doses, if at all. This is easy. This is safe .
They order takeout—because no one feels like cooking, and honestly, no one really cares. There’s no pressure to set the table a certain way, no expectation of a picture-perfect meal. Instead, there’s Maddie balancing a takeout container on one knee while cutting up Jee food. There’s Christopher stealing a bite of Eddie’s fries when he thinks no one is looking.
It’s chaos in the best way.
Buck sits back for a moment, watching it all unfold. The conversation, the easy laughter, the way Christopher bumps his knee against his under the table just because. There’s something about it—about the noise, the warmth, the belonging —that settles something deep inside him.
He catches Maddie watching him, a soft smile tugging at her lips. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. The look in her eyes says it all.
You’re okay. You’re here. You’re loved.
Jee, practically clings to Eddie’s leg, her tiny hands gripping onto him like he personally hung the moon and the stars. And Buck watches, only mildly jealous he’s no longer the favourite uncle—because he understands the feeling
Buck watches as Eddie scoops her up without hesitation, settling her on his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And Buck feels it then— that feeling. The one he used to shove down, used to tell himself he wasn’t allowed to have. That mix of warmth and longing and home . He used to think family was something fragile, something he’d have to fight to hold on to. But looking around now, he realizes—this? This is solid.
Christopher and Chim get way too involved in a heated discussion about the new Hunger Games book. Something about gumdrops that Buck absolutely doesn’t understand, but both of them seem incredibly passionate about it. Maddie and Eddie exchange amused glances, Maddie leaning into Chim’s side, Eddie brushing his fingers absentmindedly over Christopher’s shoulder.
And Buck?
He sneaks a kiss from Eddie when no one’s looking—soft and lingering, just because he can . And Eddie just smiles into it, squeezing his knee under the table like he knows exactly what Buck is feeling without him having to say it.
He was expecting to survive today. To grit his teeth and get through it.
But instead, he’s here . He’s laughing. He’s loved.
And for the first time in a long time, Mother’s Day doesn’t feel like something he has to endure.
It feels like something whole.