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Eddie wakes up already annoyed at himself.
Not because the alarm went off at an hour that should be illegal, or because his shoulder has been making that tiny, petty click when he rolls it, or because the world keeps insisting on moving forward like it didn’t lose Bobby Nash and a whole chunk of its center of gravity.
No. He wakes up annoyed because the first coherent thought he has is:
I should hold Buck’s hand today.
He blinks at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible.
Beside him, Buck is warm. Buck is also—this is important—asleep. Buck’s face is turned into Eddie’s pillow, mouth slightly open, lashes doing that unfair thing where they look better when he’s unconscious. One of Buck’s arms is flung across Eddie’s stomach, heavy and loose, and his leg is hooked over Eddie’s shin like an anchor.
This is normal. This is roommate stuff. This is what happens when your best friend loses his house in a freak accident of life choices and grief logistics, and you’ve got an extra bed, and then the bed becomes our bed because it’s easier and because Buck snores less when Eddie threatens him, and because sleep is already hard enough without adding distance.
Eddie has never been precious about space. He’s been a soldier, a father, a husband, a man who can fall asleep sitting upright in a folding chair if he has to. Sharing a bed is not a big deal.
Wanting to hold Buck’s hand at work like they’re… like they’re something is, however, a big deal.
Eddie stares at Buck’s hand where it’s splayed across his stomach. Big. Calloused. The one with the stupidly gentle thumb that pets absentminded circles into Eddie’s skin in the middle of the night like Buck is soothing a dog.
Eddie’s brain, in the pre-dawn fog where nothing is filtered yet, goes: Hold it. Just take it. It’s right there.
He shifts carefully, trying to slip his fingers under Buck’s palm. Buck makes a noise—something between a hum and a sigh—and Eddie freezes like he’s been caught stealing classified documents.
Buck doesn’t wake. His arm just tightens instinctively, pulling Eddie closer.
Eddie’s annoyance spikes purely out of spite. Because now he’s trapped. Because now Buck’s body is pressed flush against his back, and Eddie can feel the slow rise and fall of Buck’s breathing, and his brain is doing that thing where it tries to find a reason for the hand-holding thought like it’s an item on a checklist.
Maybe it’s the grief. Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he had a dream where people he loves disappear and he wakes up trying to put his hands on what’s still here.
That’s… probably it.
He settles. Buck’s fingers twitch, searching, and before Eddie can talk himself out of it, he threads their hands together under the blanket.
Buck sighs again, satisfied. Like Eddie’s hand is where it belongs.
Eddie stares at their intertwined fingers and thinks, Okay. Fine. I can do this today.
The alarm goes off.
Buck groans like a dying man and buries his face deeper into the pillow. Eddie reaches over with his free hand and smacks the phone silent, then lies there for one more second with Buck’s hand in his, because the second he lets go, the day starts.
Buck shifts, blinking blearily. His eyes land on Eddie’s face. Then on their hands.
A small, sleepy smile tugs at Buck’s mouth like it’s automatic. “Morning,” he rasps.
Eddie’s mouth opens.
A normal person would let go. A normal person would act like nothing happened. Eddie has been described many things in his life—stubborn, controlled, tight-laced—but never, not once, normal.
“Morning,” Eddie says, and squeezes Buck’s hand.
Buck’s smile grows, slow and bright, like someone just turned on a light inside him. “Oh,” he says, like this is a pleasant surprise.
Eddie’s annoyance curdles into something else. Something that feels like relief with sharp edges. He tightens his grip again, just to make sure Buck knows Eddie is still there.
Buck blinks, then—because Buck is Buck—turns it into a joke. “Did you lose a bet?”
Eddie frowns. “No.”
“Are you cold?”
“It’s Los Angeles.”
Buck squints at him, processing, then shrugs like, Okay, sure, and scoots closer anyway. “All right,” he says, “We’re doing hand-holding.”
“We’re not ‘doing’ anything,” Eddie says automatically.
Buck’s eyebrows shoot up. “Eddie, you’re literally holding my hand.”
Eddie stares at their hands like they’re going to give him a different answer. “That doesn’t mean we’re doing something.”
Buck’s grin turns wicked. “It kind of does.”
Eddie points a finger at him, like that’s going to regain some control. “Don’t make it weird.”
Buck’s eyes go soft again, and that’s… unfair. “I’m not making it weird,” Buck says.
Eddie releases their hands long enough to sit up and swing his legs off the bed. He can feel Buck watching him. He can feel Buck smiling.
He can also feel the thought in the back of his head, stubborn as ever: Hold his hand today.
He pulls on his station shirt and decides, firmly, that he is absolutely going to do it.
Because it’s normal.
Because they share a bed.
Because grief does strange things to people, and if his strange thing today is making sure Buck knows he’s not alone, then… fine.
It’s fine.
At the station, the air has that familiar mix of coffee, cleaning solution, and old building warmth. It’s early enough that the kitchen lights feel too bright, like they’re accusing you of still being alive.
Chimney is already there, leaning against the counter with a mug that says WORLD’S OKAYEST CAPTAIN in peeling letters. He got it as a joke after Bobby—
Eddie doesn’t finish the thought. Chim doesn’t either. They’ve gotten good at that.
Hen is at the table with her tablet, scrolling, glasses perched on her nose. Ravi is making toast like it’s a sacred ritual. Harry is at the far end of the table, shoulders hunched, sipping coffee with the careful seriousness of someone who is still too young to be this tired.
Buck walks in behind Eddie, yawning, hair sticking up in that way that only ever seems to make him more handsome.
Eddie takes one step into the kitchen.
Then, before his brain can interfere, he reaches back and grabs Buck’s hand. Buck’s fingers lace with his immediately and Eddie leads him into the kitchen like that.
The room goes quiet in a way that makes Eddie aware of the sound of their boots on tile. Chimney’s mug freezes halfway to his mouth. Hen’s eyes flick up from her tablet, then down to their hands, then back up again. Ravi drops his toast at the same time Harry chokes on his coffee.
Buck squeezes Eddie’s hand, like, Hey, we’re doing it, and Eddie decides to ignore everyone else because they are all being incredibly dramatic about something that is, objectively, roommate behavior.
Chimney clears his throat. “Wow,” he says, tone neutral in the way that means it is very much not neutral. “Good morning.”
Eddie nods. “Morning.”
Hen says, “Eddie.”
Eddie says, “Hen.”
Hen looks at Buck. “Buck.”
Buck smiles too brightly. “Hen!”
Hen’s gaze returns to their hands, then up to Eddie’s face. “Is there… a reason?”
Eddie frowns. “For what?”
Chimney sets his mug down carefully. “For… the hand-holding,” he says, slow, like he’s talking to a skittish animal.
Eddie looks down at their hands as if he’s just noticing them. “Oh. This.”
Ravi, from the floor, says faintly, “This.”
“Eddie’s been really clingy today,” he announces, delighted, like this is a fun new feature. “It’s kind of adorable.”
Eddie turns his head slowly. “I’m not clingy.”
Buck’s eyes sparkle. “You have been holding my hand since we woke up.”
Eddie opens his mouth.
Hen says, “And?”
Eddie’s annoyance flares again, because why is everyone making it weird? “We’re roommates,” he says, like that explains everything.
Chimney’s face does something complicated. “You’re… roommates,” he repeats.
Buck nods enthusiastically. “Yep. Roommates.”
Hen doesn’t blink. “You’re holding hands because you’re roommates.”
Ravi slowly stands up, still clutching his toast. “I have had roommates,” he says carefully, “and I have never held their hand.”
Eddie’s eyes narrow. “That’s sad for you.”
Harry makes a strangled sound.
Chimney rubs his forehead. “Okay,” he says, voice attempting captain calm. “Okay. Everyone is having… whatever this is. Let’s eat breakfast.”
Eddie squeezes Buck’s hand again, because apparently that’s his coping mechanism now, and Buck squeezes back, warm and steady.
Chimney looks at their hands one more time, then at the ceiling like Bobby might still be up there shaking his head.
Hen returns to her tablet, but Eddie catches the corner of her mouth twitching.
Ravi watches them like he’s witnessing a rare meteorological event.
Harry stares at Eddie like Eddie is suddenly a different species.
Eddie ignores them all. Because this is normal.
Breakfast becomes its own kind of obstacle course.
Buck tries to make eggs. Eddie stays pressed to his side like a shadow. Every time Eddie steps away, Buck follows, and every time Buck steps away, Eddie’s hand reaches out again, catching Buck’s wrist, pulling him back in without thinking.
It’s like Eddie’s body has decided, unilaterally, that Buck needs to remain within grabbing distance at all times.
Chimney watches the third time Eddie hooks a finger in Buck’s belt loop to tug him back toward the fridge.
Chimney says, “Eddie.”
Eddie says, “What.”
Chimney points with his fork. “What is happening?”
Eddie frowns, flipping eggs with a little too much aggression. “Nothing is happening.”
Hen says without looking up, “Something is happening.”
Ravi nods, solemn. “Something.”
Harry whispers, “This is insane.”
Buck beams, leaning his hip into Eddie’s. “It’s not insane,” Buck says. “It’s sweet.”
Eddie shoots him a look. “Don’t encourage them.”
Buck tilts his head. “Encourage who?”
Eddie gestures at the room with the spatula like he might take someone’s eye out.
Hen finally looks up, eyes sharp. “Eddie,” she says, “are you okay?”
That question lands differently. It’s gentle, but it’s also… serious. Like she’s not just teasing. Like she’s seeing the way Eddie’s shoulders are too tight, the way his fingers keep finding Buck like a lifeline.
Eddie’s throat goes tight, and he hates it. He hates that his body is doing this now, in front of everyone, like he’s some kind of emotional leak.
He clears his throat. “I’m fine.”
Hen watches him.
Chimney watches him.
Ravi watches him.
Harry watches him like he’s waiting for Eddie’s face to crack open and reveal a lizard.
Buck… Buck just watches him, soft and steady, not pushing or making it worse.
Eddie shifts closer on instinct and presses a quick kiss to Buck’s cheek.
It’s not a big deal. It’s a peck. It’s the kind of thing you do when your best friend says something dumb and you’re fond of him despite yourself.
The room goes completely silent.
The spatula slips out of Eddie’s hand and hits the pan with a sad clank.
Buck freezes like his brain just blue-screened.
Chimney’s fork stops mid-air.
Ravi’s mouth opens, then closes.
Harry makes a noise like a tea kettle.
Hen, somehow, looks both delighted and exasperated. “Oh,” she says, as if she’s just confirmed a diagnosis.
Eddie pulls back, frowning. “What.”
Buck’s cheeks are pink. His eyes are wide. He looks… startled. And also pleased. Which is confusing for Eddie.
Chimney’s voice is very careful. “Eddie,” he says, “did you just—”
“I kissed his cheek,” Eddie says, because yes.
Ravi whispers, “At breakfast.”
Eddie’s annoyance flares again, defensive. “He’s my friend.”
Hen says, “Eddie.”
Eddie says, “Hen.”
Hen’s eyebrows lift. “You don’t kiss my cheek at breakfast.”
Eddie points at her with the spatula again. “That’s because you’d punch me.”
Hen smiles without humor. “Correct.”
Harry says, “Chim, uh, Captain,” like he’s calling for backup.
Chimney puts his fork down slowly. “Okay,” he says again, like he’s trying to steady a ship in a storm. “Okay. We’re… we’re going to move on. We’re going to have a normal shift.”
Eddie pouts at them all. “It is normal.”
Buck clears his throat, still pink. “Yeah,” Buck says, voice a little too high. “Normal. Very normal. Roommate stuff.”
Hen’s eyes flick between them. “You share a bed,” she says, flat.
Eddie nods. “Yes.”
Ravi looks like he’s about to faint.
Harry whispers, “You share a bed,” like he’s repeating a horror story.
Chimney rubs his face with both hands. “Bobby is haunting me,” he mutters.
Eddie turns back to the stove, jaw tight. He flips the eggs harder than necessary.
Buck’s hand brushes his lower back, a quiet, supportive touch.
Eddie catches it and holds it there, palm to palm, behind his back where no one can see.
Because it is normal.
Because Buck feels warm.
Because the world keeps moving and Eddie is still here, and so is Buck, and Eddie’s hands just want proof.
The first call of the day is a routine lift assist. Elderly man, second-floor walk-up, pride injured more than anything else. Eddie knows the drill. Buck does too.
They’re in motion before Chim even finishes dispatching the details, muscle memory carrying them.
Out in the bay, as they pull on gloves and grab gear, Eddie keeps drifting close to Buck like he’s magnetized. Buck keeps letting him.
Chimney notices when Eddie tries to climb into the engine and, without thinking, reaches for Buck’s hand again like he’s about to pull him into traffic.
Chimney’s head turns slowly. “Eddie.”
Eddie pauses, hand on Buck’s wrist. “What.”
Chimney points at their hands like they’re a crime scene. “You can’t—”
“It helps,” Eddie says, because it does.
Chimney’s eyes narrow. “Helps with what.”
Eddie doesn’t have a good answer. He has a real answer, but that one feels like opening his chest in public.
So he goes with something safer. Something vaguely logical. “Team cohesion.”
Hen makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be pain.
Ravi says, “Team cohesion?”
Eddie nods, confident now that he’s said it. “We’re a team. We connect.”
Chimney stares at him. “By holding hands.”
“Yes,” Eddie says.
Buck’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Chim,” Buck says, helpful, “Eddie’s very committed to morale.”
Harry says, “This is so weird.”
Eddie shoots him a look. “It isn't weird!”
Harry’s eyes widen. “It literally—”
Hen cuts in, amused. “Harry, let it happen. I want to see how far he goes.”
Eddie glances at her, suspicious. “Why.”
Hen smiles, sweet as poison. “No reason.”
Chimney sighs like he’s aged ten years. “Fine,” he says. “Whatever. Just—just don’t do it on scene.”
Eddie nods like that’s a reasonable request.
Then he climbs into the engine and immediately grabs Buck’s hand again across the small gap between seats.
Buck looks down at their hands, then up at Eddie, something soft and startled still lingering in his eyes. He squeezes back.
Eddie feels that squeeze in his bones.
They arrive. They do the job. The man is grumpy but grateful, and Buck makes him laugh, and Eddie watches Buck do that thing where he makes people feel safe just by being Buck.
Back in the engine, Buck’s knee nudges Eddie’s. Eddie lets it linger.
Chimney, from the front passenger seat, says without turning around, “If you two start braiding each other’s hair, I’m calling Maddie.”
Buck gasps. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
Eddie says, “We are not braiding anything.”
Hen, from the back, says, “Yet.”
Ravi whispers, “I want to go home.”
Harry says, “We are home.”
Ravi says, “I want to go to a different home.”
Eddie stares out the window, jaw tight, and holds Buck’s hand a little harder.
Back at the station, downtime hits like a wave. It’s that familiar lull where you’re supposed to relax but your body doesn’t know how anymore.
Chimney retreats to his office to do paperwork like a man seeking refuge.
Hen goes to check equipment with the focus of someone who would rather clean a hose than process whatever is happening in the common room.
Ravi hovers near the fridge like he’s considering living inside it.
Harry sits at the table, pretending to study protocols while absolutely not studying protocols.
Buck flops onto the couch, long legs sprawled, arm slung over the backrest. He looks tired in a way Eddie recognizes. The kind of tired that isn’t about sleep.
Eddie’s body moves before his brain can catch up. He drops onto the couch beside Buck, then shifts, and then—because apparently today Eddie is a man who makes choices—he tucks himself against Buck’s side.
Like, fully. Shoulder into Buck’s chest. Buck’s arm falling naturally around him.
They are essentially cuddling at work. On the firehouse couch.
Eddie feels the room go quiet again, like the building itself is holding its breath.
Harry makes a choked sound. “Oh my God.”
Ravi whispers, “Oh my God.”
Hen, from the doorway, stops dead. Her eyes take in the scene—Eddie tucked into Buck, Buck’s arm around him, Eddie’s head angled like he could fall asleep there—and something bright and dangerous flickers across her face.
She says, “Chim.”
Chimney’s voice, from his office, replies, “What.”
Hen says, “You need to come see this.”
Chimney appears in the doorway like a man walking toward his own execution. He takes one look, and his face does that complicated thing again.
He says, “Eddie.”
Eddie doesn’t move. Buck’s chest rises under his shoulder, steady. It’s… nice. Like almost for a second, Eddie’s brain isn’t shouting.
“What,” Eddie says, muffled against Buck.
Chimney gestures helplessly. “You can’t—”
Eddie finally looks up, frowning. “Why is everyone acting like I’m doing something illegal?”
Harry says, “Because you’re... cuddling.”
Eddie blinks. “So.”
Ravi says, “At work.”
Eddie’s frown deepens. “We sit on this couch all the time.”
Hen crosses her arms, eyes gleaming. “You’re not sitting, Eddie. You’re… nesting.”
Eddie stares at her. “That’s not a real thing.”
Hen’s smile widens. “It is now.”
Buck, of course, chooses this moment to tighten his arm around Eddie’s shoulders, pulling him closer. Eddie’s body relaxes into it like it’s been waiting all day.
Buck rests his chin briefly on Eddie’s hair.
Chimney’s eyes flutter closed. “Okay,” he says, voice strained. “Okay. New rule. No… no nesting.”
Buck lifts his head, eyebrows raised. “Chim, I’m just being supportive.”
Chimney points at Eddie. “He is inside you.”
Eddie sits up abruptly, mortified on reflex. “What—no.”
Hen cackles.
Ravi covers his face with both hands.
Harry says, “CHIM!”
Buck’s cheeks go pink again. His eyes flick to Eddie, quick and uncertain, like he’s checking if Eddie’s mad.
Eddie isn’t mad. Eddie is… embarrassed, maybe, because Chimney’s mouth is a weapon and Hen is enjoying this too much, but mostly Eddie is annoyed because the second he pulls away, the quiet in his brain turns into noise again.
He shifts back, slower this time, reclaiming his spot at Buck’s side. Not pressed in as much, but close enough their thighs touch.
Eddie says, defensively, “We share a bed.”
Chimney’s face goes blank. “Stop saying that like it helps.”
“It does help,” Eddie insists. “It’s context.”
Hen says, “It’s evidence.”
Ravi whispers, “It’s a crime.”
Eddie glares at all of them. “You’re all acting like you’ve never had a close friend.”
Hen’s eyes soften just a fraction. “Oh, we have,” she says. “We’re just not… like this.”
Eddie looks down at his hands in his lap, then reaches over and takes Buck’s hand again.
Buck’s fingers lace with his without hesitation.
There’s a moment where everyone just stares.
Then Chimney says, flat, “I’m calling Maddie.”
Buck yelps. “No!”
Eddie says, “Don’t.”
Hen says, “Do it.”
Harry says, “Please do it.”
Ravi says, “I beg you.”
Chimney pulls his phone out with the grim determination of a man making a sacrifice for the greater good.
Eddie tightens his grip on Buck’s hand like it’s a tether.
Buck squeezes back, and Eddie hates how much that helps.
Later, when they’re making lunch, Eddie finds himself behind Buck at the counter, arms around Buck’s waist to reach past him for the spices.
It’s efficient. Buck is tall. Eddie is not short, but Buck is a human obstruction in the kitchen at all times.
Buck freezes under Eddie’s arms, then relaxes into it like it’s… like it’s okay.
Hen walks in, sees it, and makes a low sound of appreciation. “Oh,” she says. “We’re at this level now.”
Eddie pulls back, irritated. “I’m reaching.”
Hen’s eyebrows lift. “For the cumin.”
“Yes.”
Hen nods, deadpan. “Obviously.”
Ravi enters behind her, takes one look, and turns around like he’s trying to reverse out of a parking spot without hitting anything.
Harry follows, sees Eddie behind Buck, and whispers, “He’s spooning him. He’s spooning him at the spice rack.”
Eddie snaps, “I am not spooning.”
Buck clears his throat, still not turning around. “Technically,” Buck says, voice too casual, “this is more of a… hug.”
Eddie grumbles, “Exactly.”
Hen says, “Eddie, if you hug him any tighter, you’re going to absorb him.”
Eddie shoots her a look. “Stop talking.”
Hen smiles, pleased. “Make me.”
Chimney walks in mid-sentence, holding his phone like it’s radioactive. “Maddie says,” he announces, “and I quote: ‘OH MY GOD FINALLY.’”
Buck’s head whips around. “What did you tell her?”
Chimney shrugs. “I didn’t have to tell her anything. I just said, ‘Eddie is holding your brother’s hand,’ and she screamed.”
Hen laughs again, bright and delighted.
Ravi says, very softly, “This is above my pay grade.”
Eddie’s face heats. “It’s not like that.”
Buck blinks at him, startled. “It’s not?”
Eddie’s annoyance spikes, because why is Buck acting like Eddie is confessing something? “No,” Eddie says, firm. “It’s just… normal.”
Buck’s eyes flick down to Eddie’s hands around his waist again, then back up. “Normal,” Buck repeats, voice careful.
Eddie realizes his arms are still around Buck. He drops them, like that will restore balance to the universe. “Yes. Normal.”
Hen leans on the counter, eyes sharp. “Eddie,” she says, “did you hit your head?”
“No.”
Chimney says, “Did you eat something weird?”
“No.”
Harry says, “Are you… possessed?”
Eddie glares. “No!”
Ravi says, “Are you—are you okay? Like, actually?”
That one lands too. Eddie hates that it lands. He hates that they’re all looking at him with that quiet concern under the teasing. He hates that grief has made him… leaky.
Eddie looks at Buck, because Buck is the center of all of this somehow. Buck is watching him with that open, earnest expression that makes Eddie want to punch something and also hold something.
Eddie swallows. “I’m fine,” he says, and then, because his body is stupidly honest, he adds, quieter, “I just… want to make sure he’s okay.”
The room stills.
Hen’s expression softens, the sharpness fading. Chimney’s shoulders drop. Harry looks down at his coffee. Ravi exhales like he’s been holding his breath.
Buck’s eyes go wide, and then his face does something like hurt—not in a bad way, in a way Eddie doesn’t have words for.
Buck says, very quietly, “Eddie.”
Eddie’s throat tightens. “What.”
Buck steps closer, like he can’t help it. He bumps his shoulder into Eddie’s, a small, steadying thing. “I’m okay,” Buck says, like he’s promising.
Eddie nods once, because he can’t do more without cracking open.
Hen clears her throat, brisk. “Okay,” she says, voice returning to normal. “That was sweet. Now stop hugging him at the spices.”
Chimney mutters, “I hate all of you.”
Harry whispers, “I don’t.”
Ravi says, “I do.”
Eddie goes back to the food. He reaches for Buck’s hand again under the counter where no one can see.
Buck laces their fingers together without hesitation.
The call that afternoon is messy in the way calls often are: a car accident, someone pinned, adrenaline, metal, the sharp bite of gasoline in the air. Eddie’s body switches into work mode like flipping a switch.
He’s good at this. He knows what to do. He knows how to keep his hands steady when someone’s life is literally between his palms.
Buck is at his side, focused, competent, all bright edges turned sharp for the job.
Eddie doesn’t touch him on scene. Chimney’s rule echoes in his head, and also, Eddie has enough respect for the work not to make it about whatever is happening in his chest today.
But when the patient is freed and loaded, when the crisis breaks and they’re left with the aftermath, Eddie’s eyes find Buck automatically.
Buck’s jaw is tight. His breath is a little fast. There’s a faint smear of dirt on his cheekbone.
Eddie reaches out and wipes it away with his thumb.
Buck freezes.
Eddie realizes what he’s done and retracts his hand like it’s been burned.
Buck’s eyes stay on him. There’s something in them now—something that wasn’t there this morning. Something that looks like Buck is trying very hard to be patient and failing.
Chimney calls for them, and the moment snaps.
Back in the engine, Buck sits too still, fingers tapping against his thigh like he’s trying not to reach.
Eddie’s own hand twitches at his side, wanting.
Ravi watches them from across the aisle like he’s watching a bomb timer count down.
Harry whispers, “He touched his face,” like he’s narrating a documentary.
Hen murmurs, “Mm-hmm,” like she’s already five steps ahead of everyone.
Chimney grips the steering wheel a little harder.
Eddie stares at Buck’s profile and thinks, wildly, Why is this harder now?
Because Buck is noticing.
Because Buck is… reacting.
Because Eddie started the day wanting to hold Buck’s hand, and now it feels like his whole body is screaming to keep him close in ways Eddie doesn’t know how to control.
That night, after dinner and showers and the last few hours of shift settling into quiet, they end up on the couch again. It’s almost inevitable. The couch is the firehouse’s heart. The place where everyone collapses.
Chimney is half-asleep in the recliner, paperwork abandoned on his lap.
Hen is on the other end of the couch with her feet up, scrolling through her phone, the picture of calm.
Ravi is perched on the floor with a deck of cards, shuffling like he’s trying to self-soothe.
Harry is at the table again, studying for something with the intense focus of someone determined to be good enough to belong here.
Buck sits down, and Eddie sits close. Closer than necessary. Their thighs touch.
Eddie tells himself he’s just tired. That the call took it out of him. That Buck feels like home in a place that’s been missing Bobby’s steady gravity since he—
He doesn’t finish that thought either.
Buck’s shoulder brushes Eddie’s. Eddie leans in.
Buck’s arm goes around him again.
Eddie settles against Buck’s chest, head angled just right. The noise in his brain quiets.
It feels safe.
Hen says, without looking up, “You know we can all see you.”
Eddie doesn’t move. “So.”
Ravi makes a helpless sound. “How are you doing that,” he whispers, “so confidently.”
Eddie mutters, “Because it’s normal.”
Harry drops his pen. “It’s NOT normal!”
Chimney, half-asleep, mumbles, “Let him… nest…”
Hen snorts.
Buck’s arm tightens, like he’s claiming Eddie back.
Eddie closes his eyes, just for a second, because it’s warm and quiet and his body is tired of holding everything in.
Buck’s voice, very soft, near Eddie’s ear: “Eddie.”
Eddie hums, eyes still closed. “What.”
Buck’s hand slides up Eddie’s arm, fingers curling gently around his bicep like he’s anchoring himself too. “Are you… doing this on purpose?”
Eddie opens his eyes, frowning, and tilts his head back to look at Buck’s face. Buck’s gaze is fixed on him, serious now, not joking.
Eddie’s stomach drops, because that question is dangerous.
“Yeah,” Eddie says, because lying feels worse.
Buck swallows. “Why.”
Eddie’s brain scrambles for an answer that won’t ruin everything. For something that keeps them in the safe zone of just friends and roommates and normal.
He says, “Because you looked sad this morning.”
Buck blinks. “I always look sad in the morning.”
Eddie frowns. “No. Different sad.”
Buck’s eyes soften. “Eddie…”
Eddie’s chest tightens. He looks away, because Buck’s face like this makes it too hard to pretend.
He says, quietly, “I just… want to make sure you know you’re not by yourself.”
The room is quiet again, but this time it’s not dramatic. It’s… listening.
Hen’s scrolling stops.
Ravi’s shuffling slows.
Harry looks up, careful.
Even Chimney seems more awake, eyes cracked open.
Buck’s hand cups Eddie’s arm like he’s holding on. “I know,” Buck says, voice rougher than earlier. “You do that all the time.”
Eddie’s throat tightens. “Then why are you asking?”
Because Buck, apparently, has reached a limit of patience. Buck’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick over Eddie’s face like he’s memorizing it.
Buck says, very quietly, “Because today you’re doing it like you’re afraid I’ll disappear.”
Eddie’s breath catches.
Buck’s voice is soft but relentless. “And you kissed my cheek. And you keep holding my hand. And you’re cuddling me in front of everyone like you don’t care.”
Eddie’s heart pounds, fast and stupid.
Buck’s eyes shine. “And I—” Buck stops, jaw working like he’s fighting the words. “I like it,” he admits, almost angry. “I like it so much it’s making me crazy.”
Hen makes a sound that might be a laugh, but she keeps quiet.
Ravi’s eyes go wide.
Harry’s hand flies to his mouth.
Chimney mutters, “Oh, thank God,” like a prayer.
Eddie stares at Buck, stunned, because… because this wasn’t the plan. Eddie didn’t have a plan, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
Eddie says, stupidly, “It’s just normal roommate stuff.”
Buck’s eyes flash, and there it is—the snap Eddie didn’t realize was building all day.
Buck’s hands come up fast and gentle, grabbing Eddie’s cheeks, thumbs pressing into the line of his jaw like Buck is holding Eddie in place so Eddie can’t run from his own nonsense.
Eddie freezes, breath caught.
Buck leans in and kisses him.
It’s not a peck. It’s not a joke. It’s not a half-measure.
It’s warm and sure and a little desperate, like Buck has been holding his breath all day and finally exhaled.
Eddie’s brain goes completely blank.
Somewhere behind them, Harry makes a noise like a strangled laugh.
Ravi whispers, “He did it. He actually did it.”
Hen says, quietly pleased, “Told you.”
Chimney sighs like his soul is leaving his body in relief.
Buck pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against Eddie’s, still holding his face. His eyes are bright, a little wild.
He says, breathless, “That’s not roommate stuff.”
Eddie’s mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Buck’s thumbs stroke Eddie’s cheeks like he’s soothing him. “Eddie,” Buck says, softer now, “you can stop pretending.”
Eddie’s chest aches. His hands, finally catching up, come up and grip Buck’s wrists—steadying, grounding, real.
He swallows. “I wasn’t pretending,” he says, because that feels true and also ridiculous.
Buck’s mouth twitches. “You were absolutely pretending.”
Eddie huffs a shaky breath, eyes burning, annoyed at himself even now. “Shut up.”
Buck smiles, bright and tender all at once. “Make me.”
Eddie stares at him and something in him unclenches.
He leans in and kisses Buck back.
And if the entire Station 118 cheers quietly in the background like this is the world righting itself a fraction, Eddie decides he’s going to pretend he didn’t hear it.
Because he’s got Buck’s hand in his.
And apparently, this whole time, that was the normal thing.