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Chapter Text

Is Los Angeles Rams’ wide receiver Evan “Buck” Buckley shooting his shot with superstar singer Eddie Diaz?

During his latest podcast appearance on The Line of Scrimmage, Buckley revealed that he attended Eddie’s sold-out concert at SoFi Stadium earlier this month. When asked if he got a chance to meet the singer, Buck confessed with a grin:

“I tried to, but I didn’t get the chance. I actually made him a friendship bracelet—yeah, like the fans do—but I guess it didn’t make it to him. So, Eddie, if you’re listening, bracelet’s still here.”

The internet immediately went into overdrive. Clips of the interview racked up millions of views within hours, fans dissecting every word. #Buddie trended on social media, with speculation that the athlete might just be the newest name linked to the Grammy-winning icon.

While neither Buckley nor Diaz has commented further, sources close to the Rams confirm that Buck “wasn’t joking.” The wide receiver has reportedly been a longtime fan of Diaz’s music.

Could this be the start of a headline-making romance? Or just a playful moment between two of the biggest names in their respective worlds? Either way, the world is watching.

Chapter Text

Everything you lose is a step you take

So, make the friendship bracelets, take the moment and taste it

You’ve got no reason to be afraid

Eddie Diaz knew noise.

Crowds roaring as he stepped on stage, camera shutters popping like gunfire, his name shouted in a hundred different accents across the world. It was part of the job, part of the dream he’d built with sweat and long nights in tiny clubs before anyone knew his name. He had learned how to block it out, how to smile through it, how to walk with his chin high even when it felt suffocating.

But the noise this morning was different.

It wasn’t the usual speculation about who his next album was about, or whether his tour outfits were too revealing, or if he was dating some actor he’d only spoken to once at a gala. This noise was brighter, louder, tinged with something almost playful.

It was about a bracelet.

Eddie stared at his phone, spoon frozen halfway to his mouth as the headline flashed again:

Rams’ Wide Receiver Evan “Buck” Buckley Says He Made Eddie Diaz a Friendship Bracelet.

He blinked at it, set his phone down, and went back to his cereal like he could pretend it wasn’t real.

From across the kitchen table, Christopher cleared his throat. “Dad.”

Eddie hummed, eyes on his bowl.

“You’re trending.”

“Mm-hm.”

Christopher pushed his orange juice aside and leaned his elbows on the table, studying his father the way only a thirteen-year-old could—equal parts amusement and pity. “With a football player.”

Eddie sighed, finally meeting his son’s gaze. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” Chris slid Eddie’s phone closer to himself, thumb unlocking it like it was his own. He scrolled, and Eddie winced at the flood of clips. There he was, this… Buckley guy, laughing on some podcast, hair a mess, eyes too blue to be fair.

"I actually made him a friendship bracelet. Yeah, like the fans do. I tried to give it to him, but it didn’t make it. So, Eddie, if you’re listening, bracelet’s still here."

Christopher’s mouth twitched. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not,” Eddie shot back too quickly.

“You are.” Chris pointed at the phone, smug as hell. “Replay it. You’ll see.”

Eddie groaned and grabbed the phone, setting it face down on the table. “Eat your breakfast.”

Chris grinned but obeyed, shoveling eggs into his mouth with that air of satisfaction kids got when they knew they were right and their parent was being stubborn.

Eddie tried to focus on his food, but the words echoed anyway. Bracelet’s still here.

It was ridiculous. Plenty of people had name-dropped him before, hoping for attention. Athletes, actors, influencers—it wasn’t new. But something about the way Buckley said it didn’t feel like a stunt. He wasn’t slick, wasn’t calculated. He looked… genuine. Nervous, even.

Eddie hated that he noticed.

*

By the time his manager called, Eddie had already fielded a dozen texts from friends, half teasing, half curious.

“Good morning, superstar,” his manager chirped when he answered, way too cheery for 9 a.m. “I assume you’ve seen the news?”

Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unfortunately.”

“This is great for you. A harmless little story, makes you look approachable. You should respond: maybe a tweet, maybe a photo with a bracelet of your own. Fans would eat it up.”

Eddie swiveled in his chair, staring out at the backyard where Chris was lay down, in the sun. “I’m not looking to start some PR circus.”

“It already started without you,” Hen countered smoothly. “Better to lean into it than look like you’re ignoring him. He’s likable. America loves him. If you smile, the internet will swoon.”

He didn’t answer right away. The truth was, a small, treacherous part of him was curious. Not about the headlines or the likes, but about him. About why a football star would sit on a podcast and admit he’d made a beaded bracelet for someone he’d never met.

“Think about it,” She pressed. “Even just a thank you. Keeps your name in the feed for the right reasons.”

Eddie hung up with a noncommittal hum, tossing his phone onto the counter.

Chris poked his head in a minute later, hair damp from the sprinklers. “So?”

“So what?”

Chris tilted his head like Eddie was the slowest person alive. “Are you gonna text him?”

“I don’t even have his number.”

“Then tweet him.”

Eddie shook his head, hiding a smile. “Go shower, kid.”

*

That night, after Chris was asleep and the house finally quiet, Eddie found himself on the couch, phone in hand. He told himself he was just scrolling—just catching up on sports headlines, maybe seeing what the Rams’ record was.

Instead, he ended up on a highlight reel. Buckley darting across the field, catching impossible throws like gravity didn’t apply to him. Every time he grinned, helmet off, Eddie felt that same flutter in his chest.

He shut the phone off, set it face down again.

But the words lingered anyway. Bracelet’s still here.

And Eddie wondered—dangerously, foolishly—what it would feel like to take it from him.

The next morning, Eddie thought maybe the noise would have died down. Stories moved fast in Hollywood; someone else was always making a scene, dropping a surprise single, or walking out of a restaurant with the wrong person.

But no.

If anything, it was louder.

His name sat at the top of trending lists alongside Buckley’s. Fans were splicing concert clips with football highlights, editing them into montages set to his own songs. Every notification made his phone buzz until he finally flipped it to Do Not Disturb.

At rehearsal, the band was merciless.

“Diaz,” his dancer grinned as Eddie walked in, “you dating the Rams yet, or you still playing hard to get?”

Eddie tossed him a look that had silenced journalists in seconds. It didn’t work on Marco.

“Hey, I’m just saying.” Marco raised his hands, mock-defensive. “He’s cute. He’s tall. He makes bracelets. What more do you want?”

Eddie groaned, setting down his guitar case. “Can we focus?”

They laughed but did, settling back into the rhythm of rehearsal. Still, Eddie caught the way a few of them exchanged looks, whispering behind their sheet music. He wasn’t surprised. He was used to being a story. He just hadn’t expected to be this kind of story.

*

Later, during a break, he sat with a bottle of water, scrolling despite himself.

The clip of Buckley on the podcast had already passed twenty million views. The comments were relentless:

He’s down bad and I love it.

Buddie nation rise.

Imagine being so powerful that an NFL player makes YOU a friendship bracelet.

Eddie rubbed a hand over his face, trying not to laugh. It wasn’t funny. It was ridiculous. But some small part of him felt good. Not the attention, not the headlines, but the idea that someone like Buckley could look at him from a distance and think he was worth making something for.

He hadn’t felt that in a long time.

“Earth to Eddie.”

He looked up. Carla, his oldest friend and unofficial big sister, stood over him with her arms crossed. She worked as Chris’s caretaker, but she’d long ago become Eddie’s anchor in the madness of fame.

“You’ve been staring at your phone like it’s gonna sprout legs,” she said.

He shrugged. “It’s stupid.”

“Mm.” Carla plopped down beside him. “Stupid usually means interesting.”

“It’s a headline.”

“It’s a man,” she corrected. “And not just any man—did you see his arms?”

Eddie groaned again, but she just smirked.

“You’re allowed to enjoy it, you know,” she said gently. “Let someone like you out loud. Doesn’t mean you owe the world your private life.”

Eddie leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “You think I should respond?”

Carla grinned. “I think you already want to.”

*

That night, after rehearsal, Eddie lingered in the car long after his driver parked in front of the house. He should’ve gone inside, should’ve checked on Chris, should’ve showered and collapsed into bed. Instead, he sat in the back seat with the glow of his phone illuminating the dark interior.

He hovered over Twitter—X, whatever it was called now—thumb tapping the screen, deleting, typing again.

Thanks for the bracelet, @Buck.
I’ll trade you one of mine for it.
Good game.

Every attempt felt wrong. Too cold, too calculated, too… exposed. He pressed delete once more.

Finally, he locked the phone and shoved it into his pocket, dragging himself inside. Chris was already asleep, Carla humming softly as she folded laundry in the living room. She gave him a knowing look but didn’t say anything.

Eddie collapsed into bed with the bracelet still on his mind.

It was ridiculous. He didn’t know this man. But somewhere, in some drawer or bag, there was a string of beads with a name and a number on it. And for reasons he couldn’t name, that mattered.

Chapter Text

My thoughts will echo your name

Until I see you again

These are the words I held back

As I was leaving too soon

I was enchanted to meet you

Buck didn’t mean for it to blow up.

The podcast had been casual—just him, the hosts, and a couple of microphones. Locker room stories, predictions for the next game, even a heated debate about the best post-practice meal. It was supposed to be fun. Relaxed.

And then Eddie Diaz’s name slipped out.

He hadn’t planned it. He hadn’t meant to say anything. But the hosts asked if there was anyone he’d like to meet, and suddenly Buck was grinning like an idiot, talking about how he’d gone to one of Eddie’s concerts and made him a bracelet.

He thought it would be a throwaway line. Maybe a laugh. Maybe one of those little clips fans posted for a day before the internet moved on.

Instead, he woke up to chaos.

His phone was buzzing nonstop, notifications piling up so fast the screen froze. He had twenty missed calls—ten from teammates, three from reporters, one from his agent, and several from Maddie. He ignored them all, dragging himself out of bed and into the kitchen, hoping coffee would make it less real.

It didn’t.

By the time he sat down with his mug, his face was plastered across every sports site, every gossip blog, every social feed. Evan Buckley Shoots His Shot With Superstar Eddie Diaz. Friendship Bracelets and Football: The Crossover We Didn’t Know We Needed.

Buck buried his face in his hands.

*

“Bro,” Chim said as soon as Buck walked into practice that morning. “I didn’t know you were a fan of Diaz.”

Buck groaned. 

“Just saying. That man can actually sing in Spanish and English. You’ve got taste, Buckaroo.”

“It’s not—” Buck started, but they cut him off with laughter.

“‘Bracelet’s still here,’” Chim repeated in a falsetto, clutching his chest like a lovesick teenager. “Oh my God, I’m gonna die.”

Ravi leaned close. “So… did you actually make it?”

Buck hesitated. That was the problem. He had. It wasn’t just a line for a podcast—it was beads and string, knotted carefully in his kitchen while he replayed Eddie’s songs on YouTube. He’d tucked it into his pocket at the concert, thinking maybe, somehow, he’d get the chance to hand it over.

He never did.

And now the entire world knew.

Ravi’s eyes softened when he didn’t answer right away. “You did.”

Chim whooped. “Oh, he’s gone. Absolutely gone.”

Buck shoved past them toward the locker room, cheeks burning.

*

Maddie finally caught him after practice, calling three times until he couldn’t avoid it anymore.

“Evan,” she said the moment he answered, voice a mixture of exasperation and amusement, “what did you do?”

“Nothing!” Buck protested. “I just… told the truth.”

“That you made one of the most famous men on the planet a bracelet,” Maddie said dryly. “On a podcast. On camera. That truth?”

Buck slumped onto the bench in the empty locker room. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Tell that to the internet.”

He groaned. “Maddie—”

She sighed, her tone softening. “Look, I’m not mad. I just… I don’t want you to get hurt. People are going to run with this.”

Buck stared at the floor, fingers twisting the edge of his towel. “I know.”

“You’ve got a good heart,” Maddie continued. “Just… make sure he deserves it.”

Her words lingered long after they hung up.

*

That night, Buck found himself scrolling through clips of Eddie’s concerts. He told himself it was just curiosity—research, even. If the world was going to tease him for crushing on a global superstar, he might as well know what he was in for.

But then Eddie appeared on the screen—spotlight catching the curve of his jaw, voice smooth and raw all at once—and Buck forgot how to breathe.

There was something magnetic about him, something that went beyond fame or music. The way he closed his eyes when he sang. The way he smiled at the crowd like he meant it.

And Buck thought, not for the first time, that maybe the bracelet hadn’t been such a stupid idea after all.

The thing about Buck was—he didn’t know how to stop once he started.

It was midnight by the time he admitted defeat. He’d tried everything—long shower, a glass of milk, even putting on some boring documentary—but nothing worked. His brain kept circling back to the same point: Eddie Diaz had definitely seen the clip by now.

And if he had… what was he thinking?

Buck lay sprawled on the couch in sweatpants, phone glowing inches from his face. He scrolled past memes, fan edits, grainy paparazzi shots of Eddie leaving rehearsal. Fans were ruthless and creative—there were already TikToks of Buck’s best plays set to Eddie’s love songs. The comments were merciless:

He’d catch Eddie like he catches those passes.

The way he smiles when he says his name??? Endgame.

We need Eddie’s response NOW.

Buck groaned, dropping the phone onto his chest. He was in over his head.

*

The next day at practice, the teasing continued.

“Diaz coming to the game this Sunday?” one of the rookies called as Buck laced up his cleats.

“Make sure your eyeliner’s on point,” another chimed in, and the locker room erupted in laughter.

Buck rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite to it. He was used to being the butt of the joke—his teammates loved him, but he was easy prey. Normally, it didn’t bother him.

This time, though, it wasn’t just about him. It was about Eddie. And the thought of Eddie stumbling across the crude comments made Buck’s stomach twist.

Their quarterback, Jordan, clapped him on the back as they headed toward the field. “Ignore ’em. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Buck shot him a look. “I admitted on camera that I made a bracelet.”

Jordan grinned. “Yeah, and every person in that locker room wishes they had the guts to say something like that out loud. Diaz is a legend. You put yourself out there. Respect.”

Buck blinked, thrown by the sincerity. “You don’t think it’s… pathetic?”

Jordan shrugged. “It’s honest. People like honest.”

The words stuck with him long after the whistle blew and drills started.

*

That night, Buck found himself back on the couch, scrolling again. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t—Maddie had even texted, stay off social media before bed—but self-control had never been his strong suit.

His thumb froze mid-swipe.

There it was. Small. Almost easy to miss. But it was there.

On a fan post that read “Imagine being Eddie Diaz and hearing this man talk about you like that”—liked by @eddiediazofficial.

Buck sat up so fast his phone nearly fell from his hands.

His heart was hammering.

Eddie Diaz had liked the post.

Which meant… he’d seen it.

He’d seen him.

Buck stared at the little heart icon until his vision blurred. Then he flopped back against the couch cushions, grinning like an idiot.

He’d replayed the clip a dozen times in his head, but seeing that tiny confirmation—Eddie Diaz had seen him—made it real in a way nothing else could.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, half wanting to type a message, half terrified of overstepping.

Hey… thanks for noticing. I’m the idiot who made that bracelet.

No. Too much.

Glad you saw it. Hope it made you laugh.

Still too casual.

Buck groaned and set the phone down, leaning back against the couch. Of course, he could play it cool. He could wait for Eddie to make the next move. But patience had never been his strong suit. He wanted—no, needed—to say something. Something that wasn’t filtered for the world.

He ran a hand over his face. The logical side of him—locker room Buck, “I’ve got practice, I’ve got games” Buck—argued that this was ridiculous. Eddie Diaz was one of the biggest stars in the world. What was a football player like him doing trying to reach out?

The other side—the one that made his chest tight and his hands fidgety—didn’t care about logic.

He had made a bracelet. He had put it out there. And Eddie had noticed.

The thought was intoxicating.

*

The next day, Buck practiced with a new sense of energy. Every catch, every sprint, every drill carried a little extra weight—he wanted to be good, to show himself as someone worthy, not just as “the guy who made the bracelet.”

Ravi noticed first. “You’re glowing, man,” he said, handing him a water bottle.

Buck laughed it off. “Nah, just… ready for game day.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Totally. ‘Ready for game day.’ Sure.”

Chim leaned over, smirking. “Don’t tell me. It’s that guy.”

Buck froze mid-drill. “That guy?”

“You know,” Chim said, waggling his eyebrows. “The one you’ve been drooling over on your couch at midnight.”

Buck groaned so loud the coach gave him a look. He turned away, muttering something about privacy.

*

Buck lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He had drafted and deleted a dozen messages to Eddie. Each one felt wrong in its own way—too eager, too casual, too forward.

He couldn’t do it yet. Not until he was sure.

Instead, he settled on something simpler: a silent promise to himself.

He would be patient.

He would play it cool.

But he wouldn’t back down.

And when the day came that Eddie Diaz finally noticed him for more than a joke, Buck was determined to be ready.

Chapter Text

I’ve been spending the last eight nights

Thinking all love ever does 

Is break, and burn, and end

But on a Wednesday, in a café

I watched it begin again

Eddie Diaz hated arriving early.

Not for the concert itself—he thrived on performing, loved the roar of the crowd, and the way music could make everything else disappear—but for the moments before, when everything was quiet and the world pressed in. Security checks, soundchecks, and the constant presence of assistants and handlers were meant to help, but tonight, focus was impossible.

Because Tommy was here.

Tommy—his ex, the one who had dominated headlines and Eddie’s life for years—was in the VIP section. Charming, stylish, dangerous in that familiar, maddening way. He didn’t speak to Eddie directly, didn’t even try, but his presence was like static in Eddie’s chest, a reminder of the old patterns he’d worked so hard to escape.

Eddie forced himself to take a deep breath. Tommy was irrelevant. He didn’t matter. Tonight was about music, about performing, and about leaving the past behind.

He adjusted the microphone, ignoring the whisper of cameras in the VIP area. People were taking photos, already speculating, already making up narratives. Eddie had long ago learned how to navigate the press, how to smile and deflect, how to perform even when his chest ached.

Still, Tommy’s presence made every step feel heavier.

Backstage, Eddie ran through his setlist one last time. Crew members moved around, testing lights, checking sound, adjusting monitors. Eddie focused on the technical details, letting his hands glide over the piano keys and guitar strings. Music had always been his sanctuary, and he clung to it now.

Tommy lingered nearby, watching. Not intrusive, not yet, but present in a way that made Eddie’s skin crawl. Every flash of a camera that caught them both in the same frame twisted Eddie’s stomach. He could feel the whispers before they even formed—fans speculating, reporters guessing. Tommy still had power, still could make a headline, and Eddie hated the weight of it.

He ignored it, running through a few chords, grounding himself. The spotlight would soon be on him, and that was enough.

Meanwhile, the crowd outside was buzzing, the roar of anticipation drifting through the walls. Eddie peeked at the monitors, watching fans sing along to songs that hadn’t even started. He reminded himself again: none of this was about Tommy. None of it.

Still, he felt the pull of caution in his chest. Every glance in Tommy’s direction was a reminder of what he had left behind—the control, the manipulation, the subtle poison of charm that had once made him question everything. Eddie had worked too hard to let any of that seep back in tonight.

So he focused on the stage.

On the music.

On the energy.

And on the fact that someone new—someone entirely unknown—might one day enter this world and bring a spark that had nothing to do with the shadows of the past.

But for now, the only complications he had to navigate were the ones in his own chest. Tommy remained distant, the perfect storm of charm and toxicity, and Eddie knew one thing for certain: he would not let him ruin tonight.

The lights dimmed, and Eddie stepped onto the stage, leaving Tommy behind in the background and letting the music wash over him.

Eddie stood center stage, bathed in golden light, the crowd erupting around him. But for once, he didn’t feel swallowed by the noise. He felt held by it. Lifted.

He sang like he meant it. Not for the cameras, not for the critics, not even for the fans—but for himself. Every lyric was a thread stitching him back together, every chord a reminder that he was more than the headlines, more than the past.

And somewhere in the middle of the third song, as he glanced out into the crowd, his eyes caught on something—or someone.

A figure near the front, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a Rams cap pulled low. Eddie’s breath hitched for half a beat. It couldn’t be. But then the figure looked up, and Eddie saw the unmistakable grin.

Buck.

Eddie nearly missed his cue.

He recovered quickly, slipping back into the rhythm, but his heart was racing. Buck was here. Not in a podcast, not in a clip—but real, present, watching him with that same open expression that had made Eddie smile in his kitchen days ago.

The rest of the set blurred. Eddie moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding him through the choreography, the transitions, the banter. But his mind kept drifting back to that face in the crowd.

When the final song ended and the lights dimmed, Eddie lingered backstage, pulse still thrumming. He didn’t know what he was doing—he just knew he didn’t want the night to end like this.

“Hen,” he said, breathless, “he’s here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Buckley?”

Eddie nodded. “Front row.”

Hen grinned. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go say hi.”

Eddie hesitated. “What if it’s weird?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re Eddie Diaz. You just sang your heart out to a stadium full of people. One conversation won’t kill you.”

*

Buck was sprawled on the couch, flipping through channels with the enthusiasm of a man avoiding all decisions. His phone buzzed. Maddie.

He answered with a groan. “If this is about the concert—”

“It is,” Maddie said, chipper. “And you’re going.”

Buck sighed. “Maddie…”

“Nope. Don’t even try it,” she cut in. “This time, you can finally give him the bracelet.”

Buck froze. 

“You spent three nights picking out beads like it was a NASA mission. You even added a tiny football ball charm. It’s adorable.”

Buck rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”

Maddie snorted. “Buck, you’ve already made a commotion on the internet because of it. You’re not some random fan anymore.”

Buck laughed despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right,” she said. “And I already picked out my outfit. So unless you want me to go alone and scream your name during every ballad, you’re coming.”

He paused, staring at the bracelet on his nightstand. It was still there—untouched, waiting. A little messy, a little heartfelt. Just like him.

“Fine,” he said. “But if he runs away, I’m blaming you.”

Maddie grinned through the phone. “If he runs away, I’ll chase him down and make him wear the bracelet myself.”

“His security guards would probably chase you," Buck mocks.

Maddie didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh please,” she shot back. “I’ve given birth. Twice. I can totally outrun a security guard in heels and a glitter jacket.”

Buck snorted. “You say that like it’s a challenge.”

She grinned. “It is. And if it gets me close enough to hand Eddie the bracelet myself, I’ll take it.”

Buck held up the beaded creation, the tiny football ball charm catching the light. “You really think he’d wear this?”

Maddie leaned in, eyes sparkling. “I think he’d treasure it.”

Buck rolled his eyes, but the blush crept in anyway. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re going to the concert,” she said, victorious. “So start emotionally preparing yourself. I expect tears, confessions, and possibly a duet.”

He groaned. “You’re lucky I love you.”

She winked. “I know.”

*

When a security guard tapped his shoulder and said, “Mr. Diaz would like to see you,” Buck nearly dropped his drink.

He followed the guard through winding corridors, heart pounding, until they reached a quiet hallway backstage. And there, leaning against the wall, still glowing from the stage lights, was Eddie.

“Hey,” Eddie said, voice soft.

Buck swallowed. “Hey.”

They stared at each other for a moment, the silence thick with everything unsaid.

“I saw you,” Eddie said finally. “In the crowd.”

Buck smiled. 

Eddie stepped closer. “Did you bring the bracelet?”

Buck blinked, then laughed, pulling it from his pocket like it was a talisman. “Yes.”

Eddie reached out, fingers brushing Buck’s as he took it. “Thanks,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s beautiful.”

Buck shrugged, suddenly shy. “You inspired it.”

Eddie looked up, eyes warm. “Maybe I’ll write a song about it.”

Buck grinned. “Only if I get a credit.”

They both laughed, the tension melting into something easier. Something new.

Eddie turned the bracelet over in his hand, the football ball charm catching the light. “You really made this?”

Buck nodded. “My sister said I had to give it to you. She threatened to storm the stage if I didn’t.”

Eddie laughed, low and warm. “She would’ve made it halfway before the guards tackled her.”

Buck smirked. “I told her they’d probably chase her.”

Eddie looked up, eyes dancing. “And she said?”

“That she’s given birth twice and could outrun them in heels and a glitter jacket.”

Eddie burst out laughing, the sound echoing down the empty corridor. “She sounds amazing.”

“She is. And is probably freaking out because I’m here, and she is not.”

They stood there for a beat, the bracelet between them like a bridge.

“I meant what I said,” Eddie murmured. “About writing a song.”

Buck raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious?”

Eddie nodded. “I don’t know what it’ll sound like yet. But this—” he held up the bracelet, “—this feels like something worth singing about.”

Buck’s throat tightened. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Eddie said. 

Buck looked at him, really looked at him. The stage lights had faded, but Eddie still glowed—something softer now, something honest.

“I’m glad I came,” Buck said quietly.

Eddie smiled. “Me too.”

“Well, I need to go now, so… Call me. If you want. Of course. You have my number now.”

Eddie’s fingers curled slightly around the breacelet on his wrist. He looked up at Buck, the hallway quiet expect for the distant hum of post-show cleanup.

“I will,” Eddie said, voice low but sure. “I want to.”

Buck gave a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but carried weight. “Okay.”

Eddie lingered in the hallway long after Buck disappeared around the corner, the distant echo of footsteps fading into silence. 

He stared at the bracelet.

It was imperfect. A little crooked. A bead slightly off-center. 

Eddie exhaled slowly, the adrenaline of the concert replaced by something quieter—something more electric.

He pulled out his phone.

The phone was written in the bracelet in golden numbers. Eddie hesitated for a beat, thumb hovering over the screen. Then he tapped.

The dial tone rang once. Twice.

He almost hung up.

Then—

“Hello?”

Buck’s voice, soft and surprised.

Eddie swallowed. “Hey. It’s me.”

A pause. Then warmth. “Hey.”

“I just…” Eddie glanced down at the bracelet again. “I didn’t want to wait.”

Buck chuckled. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

Eddie smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing. “So… what are you doing tomorrow?”

“Hopefully,” Buck said, “talking to you again.”

Eddie leaned against the wall, heart steady now. “Good. I’d like that.”

And in that quiet hallway, on a Wednesday night, Eddie Diaz felt something shift. With the bracelet now wrapped around Eddie’s wrist, something settled.

Chapter Text

I don’t wanna think of anything else now that I thought of you

I’ve been sleeping so long in a twenty-year dark night

And now, I see daylight

He hadn’t slept much. Not because of nerves, or the concert, or even the adrenaline that usually kept him buzzing until sunrise. It was the call. The voice on the other end. The way Buck had said “I was hoping you wouldn’t” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Eddie replayed it in his head a dozen times. The warmth. The ease.

Now, in the quiet of morning, Eddie sat at the kitchen table, coffee cooling beside him, the bracelet still snug on his wrist. Christopher padded in, hair tousled, rubbing his eyes.

Eddie blinked. “What?”

Chris smirked. “You’ve got that look.”

Eddie groaned. “You’re fourteen. You’re not supposed to be this observant.”

Chris shrugged, grabbing a banana. “You’re not supposed to be this obvious.”

Eddie chuckled, shaking his head. “We just talked.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And… it was nice.”

Chris grinned. “You gonna see him again?”

Eddie hesitated. “Maybe.”

“Can you ask for a signed t-shirt?”

Eddie laughed, because, what was he supposed to do?

Late that afternoon, he found himself on his fire escape, phone in hand, watching the city deepen into gold and violet. He tapped Buck’s name twice, put the phone to his ear—then let it drop to his lap when it went straight to voicemail. He listened to the familiar greeting and left a fumbling message: “Hey, it’s me. I was thinking if you don’t wanna grab a coffee later this week. I don’t have to perform anywhere and you said you were free, so… Anyway. Call me back.”

He hung up and pressed his palm against the brick wall, heart hammering like a drumbeat in his chest.

Below, the streetlights blinked on one by one. Somewhere a bus rumbled by. Eddie closed his eyes, let the evening air wash over him. This was new territory. And it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff—terrifying, but thrilling.

*

Across town, Buck was staring at his phone like it held the secrets of the universe.

He hadn’t expected Eddie to call. Not really. He’d hoped, sure. But hope was fragile, and Eddie Diaz was a star. A constellation. Buck was just a football guy and a bracelet.

But Eddie had called.

And now Buck couldn’t stop smiling.

Maddie walked in, saw the grin, and immediately narrowed her eyes. “You talked to him.”

Buck tried to play it cool. “Who?”

She snorted. “Don’t insult me. I know that smile. That’s your I’m trying not to freak out but I’m already planning our wedding playlist smile.”

Buck rolled his eyes. “We just talked.”

Maddie sat beside him. “And?”

Buck looked down. “And I want to see him again.”

*

Later that week, Eddie found himself standing outside a quiet café in Silver Lake, heart thudding like it was his first audition. He’d suggested the spot—low-key, tucked away, no paparazzi in sight. Buck had agreed instantly.

He spotted Buck through the window, already seated, nervously stirring his coffee.

Eddie stepped inside.

Buck looked up.

And smiled.

It wasn’t the smile from the podcast, or the one from the field. It was way softer.

Eddie sat down, suddenly unsure what to say.

Buck beat him to it. “You wore it.”

Eddie glanced at the bracelet. “Of course I did.”

Buck’s eyes crinkled. “It looks good on you.”

Eddie smiled.

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that didn’t feel empty. Just full of things waiting to be said.

“I’ve never done this before,” Buck admitted. “Not like this.”

Eddie nodded. “Me neither.”

Buck looked at him. “So what now?”

Eddie took a breath. “Now… we see where this goes.”

And in the quiet hum of the café, with coffee cooling and hearts warming, their story began.

They talked for hours.

Not about fame. Not about football or music or trending hashtags. Just life. Buck told Eddie about growing up in Hershey, Pennsylvania, about Maddie and the way she used to sneak him extra dessert when their parents weren’t looking. Eddie shared stories from his early gigs—bars where no one listened, where he sang to empty stools and still gave it everything.

It was easy. Effortless.

And when the waitress came by to ask if they wanted anything else, Eddie glanced at Buck and said, “Just one more coffee. We’re not done yet.”

Buck smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

*

Outside, the sun had dipped low, casting golden streaks across the pavement. Eddie walked Buck to his car, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, the bracelet still snug on his wrist.

“I’m glad you came,” Eddie said, voice quiet.

Buck leaned against the door, looking at him. “Me too.”

Eddie stepped back, giving him space. “Drive safe.”

Buck opened the door, then paused. “Call me,” he said, trying to sound casual. “If you want. Of course.”

Eddie smiled. “I will.”

Buck got in, started the engine, and pulled away slowly.

The hum of the engine faded into the quiet street, leaving Eddie standing alone beneath the soft glow of the café’s porch light. He watched the taillights disappear, a flicker of red swallowed by dusk, and felt the silence settle around him—not heavy, but full.

He turned back toward the café, hands in his pockets, the bracelet cool against his skin.

Inside, the waitress was clearing tables, humming something familiar. Eddie gave her a nod, then stepped out into the evening air, the sky streaked with lavender and gold.

He paused there, a smile on his face that didn’t want to leave.

*

The streetlights blurred slightly as Buck drove, not because of the weather, but because he kept replaying the evening in his head like a favorite song on loop.

He hadn’t expected Eddie to be so… open. Vulnerable. Funny, even. There was a moment, somewhere between the second coffee and the story about Christopher’s obsession with dinosaurs, where Buck had thought, This is what it feels like to be seen.

And that scared him a little.

This was different. Eddie saw the guy who still called Maddie when he couldn’t sleep. The guy who didn’t always know what he was doing, but tried anyway.

He pulled into his driveway, cut the engine, and sat there for a moment.

The silence was thick, but not lonely.

Buck stepped through the front door, the bracelet still snug on his wrist, and was met by the familiar scent of Maddie’s lavender tea. She was curled up on his couch, legs tucked under her, flipping through a magazine she clearly wasn’t reading.

“You’re late,” she said without looking up.

Buck grinned. “You’re nosy. Shouldn’t you be in your house, with your kids and husband?”

Maddie finally glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “You’re glowing.”

He tossed his keys into the bowl by the door and collapsed into the armchair across from her. “I had coffee.”

“With Eddie?”

Buck didn’t answer right away. He just smiled, soft and unguarded.

Maddie closed the magazine. “Okay, spill.”

Buck leaned back, staring at the ceiling like the words might fall from it. “It was... good. Like, really good. We talked. About everything. And nothing. And it felt—” He paused. “Easy.”

Maddie watched him carefully. “You like him.”

Buck nodded. “I do.”

She smiled, proud and protective. “I knew it.”

He looked down at the bracelet that Eddie had made for him. “He said he started writing a song.”

Maddie raised an eyebrow. “About you?”

“About the bracelet, I guess,” Buck said. “But yeah... maybe.”

She stood, walked over, and ruffled his hair like she used to when they were kids. He caught her hand, held it for a second. It wasn’t just a brother-sister moment. It was Buck grounding himself, anchoring to the one person who’d always known him before the fame, before the touchdowns, before the headlines.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice softer now.

Buck nodded, but his eyes were distant. “I think I’m on the edge of something big.”

Maddie sat beside him, their hands still loosely linked. “Football big or heart big?”

He chuckled. “Heart big. Scary big.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “You’ve been chasing stadium lights your whole life. Maybe it’s time to chase something quieter.”

They sat like that for a while, the hum of the city outside barely audible through the thick glass windows. Buck didn’t need the roar of a crowd tonight. He had Maddie. 

*

Eddie leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t used to this kind of quiet. 

In that stillness, Buck’s voice echoed in his head. The way he’d laughed when Eddie told him about Christopher’s dinosaur phase. The way he’d looked at him—not like a fan, not like a stranger, but like someone who wanted to understand.

In a dimly lit studio tucked above his living room, Eddie opened his guitar case and felt the instrument’s wooden warmth. He hadn’t written in weeks. Work had been relentless, and inspiration scarce. But now, the first chord sprang from his fingers almost on its own.

He strummed a few chords. Soft. Hesitant. Then found the melody he’d been humming since Buck left.

He scribbled into his notebook: “You didn’t ask for the spotlight, but you shine anyway.”

He paused.

Then added: “And I see you. Not the Hershey messed kid. Not the fame. Just you.”

He stared at the words.

They weren’t polished. They weren’t ready.

Eddie set the guitar down, walked to the window, and looked out at the quiet street. 

The sunlight crept in slowly, brushing against the hardwood floor like a whispered promise. Eddie blinked awake, the quiet hum of the city outside barely registering.

He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the memory of last night settle over him like a warm blanket.

Buck’s laugh. He reached for his phone, half-expecting a dozen notifications. But there was only one message waiting.

Buck: “Still thinking about last night. Hope you slept well.”

Eddie smiled. It was simple. But it hit deep.

He typed back: “Didn’t sleep much. Too busy replaying everything.”

He sat up, stretched, and padded into the kitchen. The coffee machine sputtered to life, and he leaned against the counter, watching the steam rise.

This wasn’t like the usual post-show mornings. No hangover of adrenaline. No rush to check charts or reviews. Just a quiet ache in his chest that felt suspiciously like hope.

He glanced at the guitar leaning against the wall.

Maybe he’d finish the song today.

Or maybe he’d just call Buck.

Christopher was still asleep upstairs, and for once, Eddie didn’t feel the need to rush. The world could wait. The music could wait. Even the headlines—he knew they’d come eventually—could wait.

His phone buzzed again.

Buck: “Training starts in a few minutes. Wish I could skip it and come back to that café.”

Eddie smiled, thumb hovering over the reply. He typed: “Same. But I’ve got a song to finish. You inspired something.”

Buck replied with a selfie, in his practice gear, grinning. “Write fast. I want to hear it.”

Eddie stared at the photo for a long moment. It wasn’t just Buck’s face—it was the way he looked at the camera. Like he was already thinking about Eddie. 

Later that afternoon, Eddie settled into his studio’s worn leather chair, phone in hand. He tapped Buck’s name and pressed call, heart fluttering as it rang. When Buck’s face appeared on screen—hair a mess, gasping breath—Eddie couldn’t help smiling.

“Hey,” Buck said, voice low but steady. “I just listened to that chorus again. It’s… beautiful.”

Eddie shifted, cradling his guitar. “I want it to feel like you stepping out of the shadows.”

Buck nodded, eyes bright. “Perfect metaphor. You’re good with words, you know that?”

Eddie laughed softly. “Only when someone inspires them.”

They fell into an easy rhythm: Buck asking questions about production, Eddie describing how he’d layer piano under the second verse. When the conversation paused, they simply looked at each other through the screen, sharing the quiet buzz of anticipation.

“How about we finish it together?” Buck asked finally. “Next week, after practice? I can swing by.”

Eddie’s grin was audible. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

They signed off with promises: coffee first, then lyrics; laughter trailing behind their goodbyes. As the call ended, both sat back—Buck in the locker room glow, Eddie under his studio’s soft lamplight—faces lit by hope and the unspoken knowledge that neither of them were ready to admitt.

Chapter Text

Time, mystical time

Cutting me open, then healing me fine

Were there clues I didn’t see?

And isn’t it just so pretty to think

All along there was some invisible string

Tying you to me?

Buck: “I’ve got a free night. Want to escape?”

Eddie stared at the message. He didn’t hesitate.

“Pick me up.”

*

They drove out of the city, windows down, music low. No entourage. Just Eddie in a hoodie and Buck in a baseball cap, laughing about nothing and everything. They ended up at a quiet beach, the kind tourists didn’t know about. The sun was setting, casting gold across the water.

Eddie kicked off his shoes, toes sinking into the sand. “This is better than rehearsal.”

Buck grinned. “Better than practice.”

They walked in silence for a while, the waves as their soundtrack.

Then Buck said, “You know they’re going to keep talking.”

Eddie nodded. “Let them.”

Buck looked at him. “You sure?”

Eddie turned, eyes steady. “I’m not hiding you.”

Buck’s breath caught. “Okay.”

They sat on the sand, shoulders brushing, their bracelets glinting in the fading light.

And in that quiet, away from the noise, Eddie reached for Buck’s hand.

Later, they wandered through Echo Park, the city buzzing around them. A few fans recognized them—one asked for a selfie, another just smiled and whispered, “You two look happy.”

They ended up at a rooftop bar, tucked above a bookstore, where the music was soft and the lights were low. They talked about everything but fame—childhood memories, favorite books, the weird comfort of silence between two people who don’t need to fill it. A jazz trio played softly in the corner, their music more mood than melody.

Buck led Eddie to a table near the edge, where the city stretched out below like a glittering map. The air was cool, touched with the scent of old books and rosemary from the planters lining the railing. Buck ordered whiskey, neat. Eddie asked for red wine, something dry. The bartender didn’t blink—just nodded like he’d seen stranger pairings.

Eddie told Buck about the time he tried to build a treehouse for Christopher and ended up with a pile of splintered wood and a very amused seven-year-old. Buck shared how he used to sneak into his sister’s room just to borrow her comic books, even though he’d always get caught.

They laughed. They paused. They let the quiet settle between them like a third companion.

At one point, Eddie leaned back and looked at Buck. “You ever think about what it’d be like if none of this existed? No cameras. No crowds. Just… this?”

Buck didn’t answer right away. He looked out over the city, then back at Eddie. “I think it’d still be you and me. That’s the part that feels real.”

Eddie smiled, slow and soft. “Yeah. Me too.”

The music shifted—something slower, almost sleepy. 

“You always linger near poetry,” Eddie said, out of the blue, voice low. “Is it the romance or the riddles that draw you in?”

Buck turned, a half-smile playing at his lips. “Perhaps I linger where I hope to be read.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “And do you think I’m fluent in your language?”

“I think,” Buck said, stepping closer, “you’ve been translating me for some time.”

Eddie chuckled. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’ve never been accused of subtlety,” Buck replied. “But I’ve been told I’m sincere.”

Eddie leaned forward, the light catching the curve of his smile. “And what is it you’re being sincere about now?”

Buck’s gaze didn’t waver. “That I’d rather spend the evening deciphering you than any book on this shelf.”

Eddie’s smile deepened. “Careful. I’m not easily understood.”

Buck’s voice dropped. “Then I’ll take my time.”

And he did.

*

They left the bar just after midnight.

The city was quieter now. The streets glowed gold under the streetlamps. A photographer waited across the street, camera ready.

Eddie didn’t let go of Buck’s hand.

Then Eddie’s phone buzzed.

He glanced down. His heart dropped.

Carla: “Christopher’s fever just spiked. He’s asking for you.”

Eddie stood up so fast the chair scraped. “I have to go.”

Buck blinked. “What happened?”

“My son—he’s sick. I need to get home.”

Buck’s expression shifted, concern overtaking surprise. “Do you want me to come?”

Eddie hesitated. “You don’t even know him.”

Buck’s voice was quiet but firm. “I’d like to.”

Eddie searched his face. “You don’t have to.”

Buck shook his head. “I want to.”

The drive was quiet, tension thick between them. Eddie’s fingers tapped restlessly on his thigh. Buck didn’t push. He just drove, steady and calm, like he’d done this a hundred times before.

At the house, Carla met them at the door. “He’s burning up. I gave him meds, but he keeps asking for you. It started after you left.”

Eddie rushed inside.

Buck lingered in the entryway, unsure.

Then he heard it—soft, raspy, from down the hall.

“Dad…”

Eddie’s voice followed. “I’m here, mijo.”

Buck stayed back, letting Eddie comfort his son. He didn’t intrude. He didn’t perform. He just waited.

After a while, Carla came over. “You’re Buck, right?”

He nodded.

She smiled. “I’m Carla. It's nice to meet you. Tell Eddie I’ve had to go.”

*

Later, Eddie emerged from Christopher’s room, eyes tired but grateful.

“He’s sleeping,” he said. “Fever’s down.”

Buck stood. “Is he okay?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for coming.”

Buck shrugged. “I meant it. I wanted to be here. I love kids”

Eddie looked at him for a long moment. “Yeah, I love this one. You still want to meet him? When he’s awake?”

Buck smiled. “I’d like that.”

Eddie moved through the house with practiced ease—checking the thermostat, dimming the lights in Christopher’s room, whispering reassurances in Spanish that Buck couldn’t quite make out but felt in his chest.

Buck stayed in the living room, alone for the first time.

It was warm. Lived-in. Not curated for guests or press—just real. A guitar leaned against the wall, its strings slightly worn. A stack of children’s books sat on the coffee table, one with a folded page like someone had paused mid-story.

Buck wandered slowly, eyes catching on the framed photos lining the shelves.

Christopher at the beach, grinning with a missing front tooth. Christopher in a Halloween costume—tiny firefighter gear, helmet slightly askew. One photo showed Eddie holding him, both laughing, Eddie’s eyes crinkled in a way Buck hadn’t seen before.

He smiled softly. “So this is the real you.” Buck gestured to the photos. “He’s beautiful.”

Eddie nodded. “He’s everything.”

Buck hesitated. “I didn’t know you had all this. I mean—I knew you were a dad, but seeing it… it’s different.”

Eddie sat beside him. “It changes everything. Being a dad. Every decision. Every lyric. Every risk.”

Buck looked at him. “Including me?”

Eddie didn’t answer right away.

Then, from down the hall, a soft voice called out.

“Dad?”

Eddie stood. “Coming, mijo.”

But Christopher was already padding into the room, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, curls tousled, eyes still sleepy.

He stopped when he saw Buck.

Buck stood too, unsure.

Christopher tilted his head. “Are you the guy from the bracelet?”

Buck blinked. “Uh… yeah. I guess I am.”

Christopher walked closer. “It’s cool.”

Eddie chuckled. “He’s got opinions.”

Buck knelt slightly. “I’m Buck.”

Christopher looked at him for a long moment. Then, without a word, he climbed onto the couch beside him, curling up like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Eddie watched, heart full.

Buck glanced at him, eyes wide. “Is this okay?”

Eddie nodded. “He decides fast.”

Christopher yawned. “Can you read me the dragon book?”

Buck looked at Eddie. Eddie smiled. “It’s on the table.”

Buck picked it up, opened to the folded page, and began to read.

Buck’s voice was soft as he read from the dragon book, his cadence gentle, almost musical. Christopher lay curled beside him, blanket tucked under his chin, eyes heavy but still watching Buck like he was something out of the story himself.

Eddie sat nearby, arms crossed, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. He hadn’t seen Christopher this calm during a fever in years.

Buck turned the page. “And the dragon, tired of guarding treasure, flew off to find something real.”

Christopher blinked slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re cooler than I thought.”

Buck paused. “What do you mean?”

Christopher yawned. “I saw your game last month. You’re really fast. I told my friend you were my favorite.”

Eddie’s eyebrows lifted, amused. “You never told me that.”

Christopher shrugged, already drifting. “Didn’t know you knew him…”

Buck smiled, heart quietly unraveling. “Thanks, buddy.”

Christopher’s eyes fluttered closed. “You should come back. Bring snacks.”

And just like that, he was asleep.

And in that quiet room, with a sleepy child leaning against him and Eddie watching, Buck realized he wasn’t just visiting Eddie’s life.

He was being invited in.

Chapter Text

Football’s Golden Boy Evan Buckley Spotted Cozying Up to Music Sensation Eddie Diaz!

Hold onto your feet, folks—because last night, the city’s most unexpected duo just made headlines in the most cutest way possible.

NFL wide receiver Evan “Buck” Buckley, known for his lightning-fast plays and heartthrob status, was spotted leaving a rooftop bar with none other than Grammy-winning singer-songwriter Eddie Diaz—and let’s just say, they weren’t exactly dodging the cameras.

The photo? Pure gold. Buck in a fitted tee and backwards cap, Eddie in a denim jacket and that now-famous bracelet (yes, that bracelet). The two were seen walking hand-in-hand, laughing like they didn’t just break the internet.

“They looked like they were in their own world,” said one witness. “No entourage, no bodyguards—just two guys who clearly didn’t want the night to end.”

Now, with this photo surfacing, the hashtag #BuddieConfirmed is trending.

Sources close to Buck’s team say the athlete is “focused on the season,” but declined to comment on his personal life. Meanwhile, Eddie’s label has remained silent—though insiders say a new track titled “Golden” may be dropping soon, and yes, it’s rumored to be about Buck.

Fan reactions range from “I KNEW IT” to “This is the crossover event of the year”, and others “This is clearly PR”. One tweet simply read: “Football + Firefly guitars = my heart can’t take this.”

Whether this is a slow-burn romance or just two icons sharing a moment, one thing’s for sure: the city’s never looked brighter.

Stay tuned, because if this is just the first verse, we can’t wait for the chorus.

Chapter Text

Just grab my hand and don't ever drop it

My love, baby (baby)

I know places we won't be found and they'll be

Chasing their tails trying to track us down 'cause

I know places we can hide

Buck sat quietly on the couch, sipping coffee from a mismatched mug Eddie had handed him earlier. The house was still, sunlight creeping across the floor in slow golden streaks. Christopher stirred beside him, blinking awake, curls flattened on one side, blanket half-kicked off.

He sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes. Then he noticed Buck.

“You’re still here?” he asked, voice scratchy but alert.

Buck smiled. “Yeah. Didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

Christopher stretched, then grabbed his stuffed dinosaur from the floor. “I only cuddled last night because I had a fever. Just so you know.”

Buck raised an eyebrow, amused. “Noted.”

Christopher stood, already heading toward the kitchen. “Also, you owe me snacks. You said you’d bring some next time.”

Buck chuckled. “I’ll bring double.”

Eddie walked in just in time to catch the tail end of the exchange. “He’s subtle, huh?”

Buck grinned. “Very.”

Christopher popped his head back into the room. “And I still think you’re cool. Just not, like, too cool.”

Eddie laughed. “That’s high praise.”

Buck looked at Eddie, then back at Christopher. “I’ll take it.”

Later, as Buck slipped on his jacket and headed for the door, Christopher handed him a crumpled drawing—a dragon flying over a football field.

“Here,” he said. “You can have it. But only if you actually come back.”

Buck took it carefully, like it was made of glass. “Deal.”

And as the door closed behind him, Eddie stood in the hallway, arms crossed, heart full. Christopher didn’t give out drawings lightly.

“I have a game tomorrow, you know,” Buck said, voice light but deliberate. 

Christopher looked up, curious. “Yeah?” 

Buck smirked. “Wanna go see me play?” 

Eddie paused mid-flip, raising an eyebrow. “You inviting us to an NFL game like it’s a backyard barbecue?” 

Buck shrugged. “Why not? I’ve got tickets. Good ones. You’ll be at the VIP session."

Christopher blinked. “VIP? Like, snacks and everything?”

Buck grinned. “Unlimited snacks.”

Christopher tried to act unimpressed, but his voice betrayed him. “That’s kinda cool.”

Eddie leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You sure you want us there? What if we jinx you?”

Buck looked at him, serious for a beat. “I’m sure I would play better if I know you’re watching.”

Eddie didn’t respond right away. Just stared at Buck like he was trying to read between the lines.

Christopher broke the silence. “Can I wear a signed t-shirt?”

Buck smiled. “You better. I’ll leave one here tonight.”

Eddie finally nodded. “Alright. We’ll be there.”

“Just don’t mess up,” Christopher says. 

Buck laughed. “No pressure, huh?”

*

The stadium was packed. The crowd buzzed like a living thing, waves of cheers rolling through the air. Christopher clutched a foam finger twice the size of his head, Buck’s jersey hanging off his shoulders like armor. Eddie stood beside him, sunglasses on, arms crossed—but his eyes never left the field.

“There he is!” Christopher shouted, pointing as Buck jogged out with the team, helmet tucked under his arm, pads gleaming under the lights.

Eddie followed his gaze. Buck looked calm, focused—but when he glanced up toward the VIP section, his eyes found them. Just for a second.

He smiled.

Christopher waved like crazy. “He saw us!”

Eddie smirked. “He better. We’re wearing his number.”

The announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium. Kickoff was seconds away.

Buck slipped on his helmet, tapped the wristband where Christopher’s dragon drawing was folded inside, and took his place on the line.

The ball snapped.

The game began.

And somewhere in the chaos of tackles and cheers, Buck played like he had something to prove—not to the crowd, not to the league, but to the people watching from above.

And next to them—Maddie.

She wore Buck’s team hoodie, oversized and proud, camera slung around her neck like she was on assignment. “I swear, if he doesn’t wave at us, I’m storming the field.”

Christopher giggled. “You’d get tackled.”

“I’d tackle back,” Maddie said, eyes scanning the field. “There it is,” she said. “The ‘I’m pretending not to be emotional’ look.”

Eddie chuckled. “He’s got a whole stadium watching. He’s got the right to.”

“I’m Maddie, by the way,” she said, offering a grin and a handshake. “His big sister.”

Eddie took her hand, amused. “Eddie. But you know that, since you threatened to run after me in heels and glitter.”

Maddie blinked, then burst out laughing. “He told you that, huh?”

Eddie smirked. 

“Buck has a habit of oversharing. Only the best stories. You should hear the one about his first touchdown and the confetti incident.”

Christopher leaned in. “I wanna hear it!”

Maddie winked. “After the game. If he scores, I’ll tell you everything.”

Eddie glanced down at the field, where Buck was focused and fierce. “He better score, then.”

*

The final whistle blew, and the stadium erupted.

Buck stood in the end zone, chest heaving, helmet in hand, sweat streaking down his face like war paint. His teammates swarmed him, shouting, slapping his back, lifting him off the ground like he was made of gold.

He’d done it.

Touchdown. Game-winner. First of the season.

Up in the VIP section, Christopher was losing his mind. Eddie laughed, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. Christopher beamed. “He’s the best.”

Eddie didn’t say anything, but his smile said enough.

Down on the field, Buck glanced up toward the box. He couldn’t see them clearly through the lights and distance, but he knew they were there. He raised a hand, subtle, just for them.

Christopher waved back like he was trying to signal a plane.

Maddie nudged Eddie. “You gonna go down?”

Eddie shook his head. “Not yet. Let him have his moment.”

And Buck did. Surrounded by teammates, cameras flashing, the crowd chanting his name—he soaked it in. Around him, teammates celebrated, joked, relived plays in exaggerated reenactments. 

*

He pulled out his phone. One unread message.

Eddie: You crushed it. He’s still smiling. Proud of you.

Buck smiled, slow and quiet. He didn’t reply right away. Just stared at the screen like it held more than pixels—like it held something sacred.

He thought about the look on Christopher’s face. The way Eddie had stood beside him, arms crossed, trying not to show too much but failing in the best way.

He’d played football before. He’d won games before.

But this one felt different.

Buck barely had time to breathe before the jokes started flying.

“Yo, Buck!” Jenkins called, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes gleaming. “You didn’t tell us your boyfriend was Eddie Diaz.”

Torres spun around. “Wait—that was Eddie Diaz? The singer? The one with the billionaire tour going on? This Eddie Diaz?”

“Yeah,” Jenkins said, holding up his phone. “He was in the VIP box. Right next to Maddie.”

Buck groaned. “He’s just here for…”

Torres raised both eyebrows. “Just here? Bro, the camera caught him standing like he was modeling tactical gear for Vogue. Sunglasses, arms crossed, looking like he’s about to drop a solo album called ‘Controlled Burn.’”

The locker room exploded.

“Controlled Burn?” Chimney wheezed. “I’m done. That’s it. I’m retiring.”

Buck buried his face in his hands. “You guys are the worst.”

“Worst?” Jenkins said. “We’re your PR team now. Album drops next week: Player Fantasy. Featuring Buck on backup vocals.”

Ravi added, “And Maddie directing the music video. Slow-mo shots of Eddie walking through smoke. Shirt optional.”

Buck laughed despite himself. “You’re all insane.”

“Insanely jealous,” Jenkins said. “What’s next? A Netflix doc called ‘The Man Behind the Hose’?”

Buck shook his head, smiling. “Only if you’re all in it.”

Chimney grinned. “We’ll be the comic relief. Eddie’s the star. You? You’re just lucky to be in the frame.”

“Ha-ha”, he said, but despite not laughing, a tiny smile curled his lips up. 

The second Buck stepped out of the tunnel, he saw them.

Eddie was leaning against the railing like he’d been carved out of cool granite—calm, collected, and somehow still the most magnetic person in the stadium. Christopher was bouncing beside him, practically levitating with excitement. Maddie had her phone raised, already filming, and Chimney was mid-monologue like he was narrating a nature documentary.

“And here we have the victorious Buckley,” Chimney said, voice dramatic. “Fresh from battle, sweat still glistening, heart full of glory. But wait—what’s this? The elusive Diaz, standing like a Greek god in jeans and a black tee. No autographs, please.”

Eddie stepped forward, eyes soft. “You were incredible.”

Buck looked up at him, heart thudding for reasons that had nothing to do with the game. “You saw?”

Eddie nodded. “Every second.”

Maddie lowered her phone. “Okay, this is getting too wholesome. Chim, say something dumb.”

Chimney didn’t miss a beat. “I’m just here for the post-game snacks and the emotional breakthroughs.”

Christopher giggled. “And selfies!”

Buck stood, slinging his duffel over his shoulder. “You guys ready to head out?”

Eddie gave a small smile. “Already got pizza waiting at home.”

Maddie raised an eyebrow. “You ordered pizza before the game ended?”

Eddie shrugged. “I had faith.”

Buck’s chest warmed. Not from the win. Not from the crowd. But from this—this moment, this group, this feeling.

He hadn’t just played for the team. He’d played for them.

*

The house smelled like melted cheese and oregano.

They ate in easy silence for a few minutes—Christopher humming to himself, Buck stealing bites from his own slice, Eddie watching them both with that quiet, unreadable expression.

Christopher broke the silence first. “You were so fast, Buck. Like—zoom! And then you did the dance that Dad does on the tour! Everyone was cheering!”

Buck smiled. “You think I should do it every game?”

Christopher nodded. “Only if I get to pick the next one.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Please don’t let him choose anything from my tour.”

Buck laughed. “No promises.”

Eddie reached for another slice, then paused. “You know… I’ve seen you play before. But tonight felt different.”

Buck looked up. “Yeah?”

Eddie met his eyes. “Yeah. Don’t know why.”

Buck swallowed the lump in his throat. “I think I finally knew who I was playing for.”

Christopher, oblivious to the emotional undercurrent, wiped his hands on his shirt and declared, “Next time, I want a shirt that says ‘Coach Chris.’”

Eddie chuckled. “Deal. But only if you stop eating like a raccoon.”

Buck leaned back. 

The game was over. 

The crowd was gone. 

And this was a different type of win. 

Buck stood and brushed crumbs off his jeans. “I should get going,” he said softly, almost reluctant.

Christopher’s face fell. “Already?”

Buck ruffled his hair. “Coach Chris needs his rest. Big dreams need big sleep.”

Eddie leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching Buck with a quiet intensity. “You driving home?”

Buck nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got that early shift tomorrow.”

Eddie hesitated, then said, “You could crash here. Couch’s still yours if you want it.”

Buck smiled, grateful. “Thanks. But I think I need the quiet tonight.”

Eddie nodded, understanding more than Buck said. “Alright.”

Christopher hugged Buck around the waist. “Next game, you do the moonwalk.”

Buck laughed. “Only if you promise to teach me.”

Eddie walked him to the door. The porch light flickered on as Buck stepped out into the night.

They stood there for a moment, the air thick with something unsaid.

“Hey,” Eddie said, voice low. “You played like you meant it.”

Buck looked at him, eyes soft. “I did.”

Eddie nodded. “Drive safe.”

Buck lingered, then turned. “Night, Ed.”

“Night, Buck.”

The door closed behind him, and Eddie stood there for a beat longer, staring at the empty porch.

*

Buck padded into the kitchen, the hum of the fridge the only sound in the apartment. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the Polaroid.

Christopher’s grin was wide, eyes bright. Buck’s arm was slung around his shoulders, both of them mid-laugh. Eddie had snapped it just before the game started, when nerves were high and spirits higher.

Buck tilted the photo, studying it.

Same cheekbones. Same smile. Even the way their eyebrows arched—there was something there. Something subtle, but undeniable.

He blinked.

Had anyone else noticed?

He thought about the way people sometimes assumed things. The way strangers at the game had looked at them—like they were a family.

And maybe they were.

Buck stared at it for a long moment.

Then he grabbed a magnet—one of those cheesy ones shaped like a fire truck—and pressed the photo to the fridge door.

It wasn’t perfectly straight. He didn’t fix it.

He stepped back, arms crossed, and looked at it like it was art.

This wasn’t just a picture. It was proof.

Proof that he belonged somewhere. That he was loved. That tonight mattered.

He whispered to the empty room, “That’s who I play for.”

Then he turned off the kitchen light, leaving the photo glowing faintly in the fridge’s soft hum.

Chapter Text

'Cause I believe that we were supposed to find this

So, even in a different life

You still would've been mine, we would've been timeless

The café was warm and bustling, the kind of place that smelled like cinnamon and second chances. Buck slid into the booth across from Maddie, who was already halfway through her latte and trying to keep Robert Han from launching sugar packets across the table.

Jee-Yun sat beside her, legs crossed, sipping apple juice like it was a business meeting. She glanced at Buck with a knowing smirk. “Uncle Buck, you were trending yesterday.”

Buck raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got a phone now?”

“She borrows mine,” Maddie said, deadpan. “And somehow knows how to find every meme about you.”

Jee-Yun looked up. “Is Eddie your boyfriend?”

Buck blinked. “You’re very direct, little girl.”

“She’s seven,” Maddie said. “She’s basically a podcast host.”

“Do you live with him?”

Buck laughed. “No. Is too soon for that.”

Maddie raised an eyebrow. 

Buck shrugged. “It’s… good. Being with them. Feels like I fit.”

Maddie leaned in, her voice quieter. “You look different. Calmer."

Little Bobby tugged on Maddie’s sleeve, but it was Jee who talked. “Can we get cookies?”

Maddie sighed. “Only if you promise not to interrogate Uncle Buck about his love life.”

Jee-Yun smirked. “No promises.”

Buck leaned back, watching the kids, Maddie, and thinking about Eddie—about the quiet way he’d looked at him after the game.

They left the café with cookie crumbs trailing behind them, Jee-Yun walking ahead like she was leading an expedition, Robert Han skipping beside her, narrating his own imaginary battle with a flying muffin.

Buck and Maddie walked a few steps behind, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the sidewalk.

“She’s sharp,” Buck said, nodding toward Jee-Yun. “Scary sharp. Just like you.”

Maddie smiled. 

“So… Eddie?”

“I don’t know what it is yet. I just… really like him. It feels steady. Don’t know if he feels like that too, though.” Buck swallowed hard. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” she said. “But you’re also ready.” Maddie stopped walking, turned to face him. “You don’t have to prove you belong there. You know that, right?”

Ahead, Jee-Yun shouted something about dragons and Robert Han declared war on a bush. Buck smiled.

“I think I’m falling for him,” he said quietly.

Maddie squeezed his arm. “Then fall. I’ll be here to catch you if it gets messy.”

Buck watched Jee-Yun chase Little Bobby across the grass, their laughter echoing through the park like wind chimes.

“It’s crazy,” he said softly. “We only met each other a few days ago. It has to be strange, right?”

Maddie didn’t answer right away. She just looked at him, really looked—like she was scanning for cracks in the armor he didn’t know he was wearing.

“Strange?” she said finally. “Sure. But not wrong.”

Buck exhaled. “It feels fast. Like I skipped a chapter.”

Maddie smiled gently. “Or maybe you just found the part that makes sense.”

He glanced at her. “You think it’s real?”

“I think you wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t.”

Buck nodded slowly, watching the kids tumble into a pile of giggles. “It’s not just Eddie. It’s Christopher. It’s the way they make space for me without asking me to earn it.”

Maddie reached over, squeezed his hand. “That’s not strange, Buck. That’s rare.”

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

The kids kept laughing. The sun kept setting. 

*

The dining room was cozy, filled with the scent of roasted vegetables and Karen’s signature lemon chicken. Hen poured wine with practiced ease, and Eddie sat across from her, swirling his glass without drinking.

Hen passed the salad bowl. “So. You’re quiet.”

Karen raised an eyebrow. “Which means you’re thinking too loud.”

Eddie gave a small smile. “Just tired.”

Hen leaned in. “You’re dating a football player. You were trending for standing still. And you’re tired?”

Karen smirked. “You’re allowed to glow a little.”

Eddie shook his head. “We’re not… dating. Not officially.”

Hen tilted her head. “But you’re seeing each other.”

Eddie nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Karen poured more wine. “And?”

He hesitated. “It’s fast. We’ve only known each other for a few days. And I keep thinking… what if I’m just falling into something that looks good but turns out to be the same old trap?”

Karen’s voice softened. “You’re thinking about Tommy.”

Eddie nodded, eyes fixed on his plate. “Six years. And I spent most of it pretending I didn’t exist. He made me invisible,” Eddie said. “Everything had to be curated. Private. Controlled. I couldn’t post a photo. Couldn’t hold his hand in public. He said my job made things messy. That being with me would ruin his image.”

Karen leaned back, arms crossed. “And you stayed anyway.”

“I thought I loved him,” Eddie said. “I thought if I just waited long enough, he’d choose me out loud.”

Hen reached across the table, touched his wrist. “But he never did.”

Eddie nodded.

Karen’s voice was quiet but sharp. “That wasn’t love. That was control, dear.”

Eddie looked up, eyes tired. “I’m scared I’ll miss the red flags again. That I’ll fall for someone who makes me feel good now but disappears when it gets hard.”

Hen leaned in. “Then let’s talk about Buck.”

Karen smiled. “He’s not hiding you. On the contrary, actually, he is pratically showing you off. He’s not asking you to shrink. He’s showing up—for you, for Christopher, for all of it.”

Eddie swallowed. “He’s… open. He doesn’t flinch when people ask questions. He doesn’t care about cameras or attention. He just wants to be there.”

Hen nodded. “Green flag.”

Karen added, “He’s the kind of guy who’d hold your hand in front of the world and not even think twice.”

Eddie’s voice cracked a little. “I don’t know how to trust that.”

“He’s a green flag wrapped in a hoodie,” Karen said. “He listens. He doesn’t play games. And he’s not trying to fix you—he’s just trying to be beside you.”

Hen added, “He’s not rushing you. You’re the one panicking.”

Eddie rubbed the back of his neck. “I just don’t want to get blindsided again.”

Hen squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to trust it all at once. Just trust the next moment. And then the next.”

Karen smiled. “And if he ever makes you feel small, we’ll handle it.”

Eddie laughed softly. “You mean you’ll bury him.”

Hen grinned. “Emotionally. Maybe.”

Hen leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice steady. “You’ve been carrying the weight of someone else’s shame for six years. Tommy didn’t want to be seen with you, didn’t want to share space with your life, your son or your name. That’s on him. It’s his shame, his complicated feelings.”

Eddie swallowed hard, jaw tight.

“Now you’ve got someone who’s doing the opposite. Buck is not calculating how you fit into his image—he’s just here.”

Karen nodded. “You’re scared because you’ve only known one kind of love. The kind that makes you smaller. Maybe it’s time to let the other love find you. The one who means peace and happiness and softness. The kind that doesn’t make you question your worth every time you walk into a room.”

Eddie looked down at his plate, voice low. “It feels too good.”

Hen softened. “That’s because it is good. And you’re not used to good feeling this easy.”

Karen added, “You don’t have to jump. You don’t have to label it. Just let it be what it is. Let it breathe.”

Hen leaned back, her tone final but kind. “Take it easy. Let yourself feel it without trying to predict the ending.”

Eddie nodded slowly, the words settling deep.

Maybe for once, he didn’t need to brace for impact.

Maybe he just needed to let himself land.

*

Eddie’s phone buzzed.

Buck: You up for a late night drive? No pressure. Just… stars, silence, and maybe a gas station snack.

Eddie stared at the message, heart thudding.

No pressure.

Just presence.

Eddie: Yeah. I’m up. I could use the silence. And you.

He hit send before he could second-guess it.

The reply came fast.

Buck: Be there in five.

*

The road to Malibu was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt earned. When the message came—“Yeah. I’m up. I could use the silence. And you.”—Buck didn’t hesitate.

Now, Eddie was beside him, hoodie pulled tight, eyes on the horizon like he was trying to outrun something invisible. Buck didn’t push. He just drove.

They stopped at a gas station off the highway. Buck grabbed whatever looked vaguely edible: sour gummies, chocolate pretzels, iced tea, and a banana he knew Eddie would mock. He didn’t care.

The beach was empty when they arrived. The moon hung low, casting silver across the waves. Buck parked close to the sand, climbed onto the hood, and patted the spot beside him.

Eddie joined him without a word.

They sat there, legs stretched out, the snack bag between them like a peace offering. Buck tossed Eddie a pretzel. “Dinner of emotionally stable men.”

Eddie caught it, smirking. “You’re lucky I didn’t make you stop for real food.”

Buck leaned back on his elbows. “This is real food. It’s got salt, sugar, and questionable shelf life. All the major food groups.”

They sat in silence for a beat, the kind that felt easy. Then Buck turned slightly toward him.

“Do you always wear hoodies at the beach?”

Eddie looked down at himself. “It’s a comfort thing.”

Buck nodded. “You look good in it.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “You say that to everyone?”

Buck shook his head. “Nope. Just the ones who make me nervous.”

Eddie blinked. “I make you nervous?”

Buck shrugged. “You’re quiet. But you see everything. That’s intimidating.”

Eddie smiled, slow and real. “You talk like you’re trying to fill every silence.”

Buck looked out at the waves. “I used to. But this one feels okay.”

Eddie leaned back beside him. “It is.”

Eddie shifted beside him, pulling his hoodie tighter. His voice came low, almost casual.

“I have a show in Paris in two days,” he said. “If you want to go… we could explore the city. I don’t know.”

Buck froze.

Paris.

With Eddie.

He didn’t answer right away. Not because he didn’t want to—but because the thought of it hit him like a gust of wind. Unexpected. Beautiful. Terrifying.

Eddie glanced at him, then looked away. “Forget about it.”

Buck turned, eyes wide. “No.”

Eddie blinked.

Buck’s voice cracked a little. “I want to. Please.”

Eddie searched his face, like he was trying to find the catch. But there wasn’t one.

Buck leaned in, heart thudding. “I want to see Paris with you.” Eddie’s breath caught. Buck smiled, soft and sure. “So yeah. I’m in.”

Eddie didn’t speak. He just nodded, slow and quiet, like something inside him had finally exhaled.

After that, they shared the snacks, trading bites and teasing each other over flavor choices. Buck learned Eddie hated coconut, loved black coffee, and once tried surfing and nearly broke his nose.

Eddie learned Buck had a weird obsession with space documentaries, cried during animated movies, and once got kicked out of a karaoke bar for singing too many boy band songs.

They laughed. They listened. They let the night stretch.

And somewhere between the gummies and the moonlight, Eddie realized something:

He wasn’t just getting to know Buck. He was getting to know peace.

Chapter Text

I wanna transport you

To somewhere the culture's clever

Confess my truth

In swooping sloping cursive letters

Let the only flashing lights

Be the tower at midnight

The venue was tucked into a narrow street in Le Marais, all exposed brick and golden light. Buck stood near the back, hands in his pockets, trying not to look like the guy who’d flown across the world for someone he’d only just met.

But he had.

And he didn’t regret it.

Eddie was somewhere backstage, prepping. The lights dimmed. A hush fell over the crowd.

And then Eddie stepped into the spotlight. He wasn’t performing in the traditional sense—he was narrating a story through visuals, voice, and movement. 

Then, by the end of the night, the crowd went silent while Eddie spoke, his voice was low and steady.

“I used to think love was something you earned. Something you had to prove you deserved. But maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe it’s just someone showing up. Again and again.”

Buck’s throat tightened. 

Eddie stepped forward, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on Buck. And Buck smiled—soft, proud, and a little overwhelmed. Because this was Eddie, unfiltered. And Buck had never seen anything more beautiful.

Eddie stood center stage, spotlight warm on his face, holding his classic blue guitar, trying to channel his inner philosopher-poet. 

“And,” he said, voice low and dramatic, “when someone—”

He paused. Squinted. Was that a sign?

Yes. A handmade sign in the third row, glittery and bold:

“EDDIE COULD BEAT MY FACE AND I’D SAY THANK YOU TWICE.”

Eddie blinked. “Okay. That’s… specific.”

The crowd laughed.

Another sign popped up: “I CAME FOR THE ART, STAYED FOR THE FOREARMS.”

Eddie rubbed his face. “You guys know this is a serious show, right?”

Someone shouted, “We’re seriously in love!”

Eddie cleared his throat, trying to recover. “Right. As I was saying—”

A third sign rose, this one in neon pink: “BUCK + EDDIE = WORLD PEACE.”

Eddie pointed at it. “That’s not even subtle. I should let him answer to that, but I’m too gentle to put that guy to the wolves.”

The crowd erupted.

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You know what? I don’t think ty’all are in the mood for speeches now. Let’s just embrace the chaos.”

The crowd laughed when another sign popped up, glittery and bold: “I flew from Argentina for this. Please flex once.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “You want me to flex? During a monologue about emotional vulnerability?”

The crowd: “YES.”

He sighed, rolled up one sleeve, flexed just enough to cause a minor riot, then pointed at the screen behind him. “Can we go back to the art, please?”

Someone scream: “this is art.”

Eddie laughed. “Wow. I hope your throat is okay! You people are unhinged.”

Eddie stepped back up to the mic, the crowd still giggling from the glitter sign war. Eddie cleared his throat, voice low and teasing.

“I just wanted to say that I’ve seen you in the crowd. Every single one of you. Dancing like no one’s watching. Crying during the quiet songs. Laughing with strangers who became friends. You made this tour and this show magical. You made it matter. And I want you to know that, when I first came up at this stage, and saw this sea of love… you reminded me why I do this. So, as we close this chapter, I just want to say thank you.”

“Okay, you’ve been with me for almost three hours now. I’m sorry, but I have to ask: do you have time… for one more song?”

Eddie smiled, giving the guitar to his backup dancer, and and grabbing the microphone from the stand.

“Thanks for letting me be weird with you tonight,” he said. “And for loving the chaos.”

The drums started, and he smiled as walked through the stage, singing his last song.

*

The moment Eddie stepped behind the curtain, the noise of the crowd dimmed—but the chaos didn’t. A stagehand handed him a bottle of water and whispered, “You’ve got fans crying, laughing, and proposing marriage. In that order.”

Eddie wiped his face with his sleeve. “Sounds about right.”

Buck was already there, leaning against a stack of lighting crates, arms crossed, holding a half-eaten croissant like it was a microphone.

“You flexed,” Buck said, deadpan.

Eddie groaned. “They demanded it. I was emotionally cornered.” Eddie shook his head, smiling. “You saw the sign?”

Buck nodded. “Which one? ‘Buckley Is Hotter Than Football in Summer’ or ‘I Married Buck in a Dream and Woke Up Mad’?”

Eddie groaned. “Both. I need to file a restraining order against glitter.”

Buck leaned in, voice softer now. “You were incredible.”

Eddie looked up. “Even with the chaos?”

Buck smiled. “Especially with the chaos. You let them see you.”

Eddie swallowed hard, the adrenaline fading into something quieter. “I didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

Buck sat beside him, shoulder brushing his. “Like what?”

Eddie looked at him. “Like home. In a city I don’t know. With a guy I barely do.”

Buck’s voice was low. “You know me enough.”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Paris was glowing—streetlamps casting golden halos, the Seine whispering nearby, and Eddie walking beside him with that relaxed post-show swagger. Buck, meanwhile, was vibrating with excitement and useless knowledge.

They passed a statue near Pont Neuf.

Buck pointed. “Fun fact: that’s Henry IV. He was assassinated in his carriage, and his embalmed head was lost for centuries. Someone found it in a private collection in 2010.”

Eddie blinked. “That’s the first thing you say in a date?”

Buck gestured to a building. “That used to be Napoleon’s personal library. He had over 3,000 books, and apparently hated fiction. Said it distracted from ‘real conquest.’”

Eddie snorted. “Sounds like someone who never read a dragon book.”

Buck gasped. “Exactly!”

They passed a bakery.

Buck paused. “Okay, not a fact, but that baguette smells like it could solve international conflict.”

Eddie laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

Buck pointed at a lamppost. “Did you know Paris was the first city in Europe to use gas street lighting? 1820s. People called it ‘The City of Light’ because of that—not the romance.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying Paris is famous because of plumbing?”

“Lighting,” Buck corrected. “But yes. Infrastructure is sexy.”

They reached a quiet square, and Buck stopped in front of a fountain.

“Okay, this one’s cool,” he said. “That fountain was built in the 1800s to give clean drinking water to the poor. It’s called a Wallace Fountain. There are over 100 of them in Paris, and they still work.”

Eddie leaned down, pressed the button, and watched the water flow.

Buck beamed. “You just drank from history.”

Eddie stood up, wiping his hands. “You’re like a walking Wikipedia with abs.”

Buck shrugged. “I’m a niche market.”

They kept walking, Buck tossing out facts like confetti:

1. The Eiffel Tower was originally hated by Parisians.
2. The Louvre used to be a fortress.
3. There’s a law that says you can’t name a pig Napoleon in France.

Eddie stopped. “Wait. That last one’s real?”

Buck nodded solemnly. “It’s still on the books.”

Eddie laughed so hard he had to lean against a wall.

And Buck, watching him under the Paris moonlight, thought: This. This is the good stuff.

Not the glitter signs. Not the applause.

Just Eddie, laughing at pig laws and drinking from fountains.

They were sitting on the edge of a fountain now—one of those old Parisian ones Buck had just explained in full historical detail, including the year it was installed, the philanthropist who funded it, and the fact that it still dispenses drinkable water. Eddie had listened, nodding, occasionally raising an eyebrow, occasionally stealing bites of Buck’s second crepe.

Buck finished his latest fact with a flourish. “And that’s why the Wallace Fountain is basically the superhero of 19th-century hydration.”

Eddie stared at him for a beat, then smiled—slow, crooked, and way too soft for Buck’s heart to handle.

“You know,” Eddie said, “I’m kind of charmed by your geekness.”

Buck blinked. “Wait, really?”

Eddie leaned back, arms stretched along the fountain’s edge. “Yeah. You make the world feel bigger. Like every street has a story. Every lamppost has a secret. It’s… nice.”

Buck tried to play it cool. “I mean, I do have a lot of lamppost lore.”

Eddie laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

Buck nudged him with his shoulder. “You’re the one who invited me to Paris.”

Eddie looked at him, eyes steady. “And I’m glad I did.”

The air shifted—less playful now, more intimate. The kind of quiet that didn’t need filling. Just the sound of water trickling behind them and the distant hum of a violin from a nearby street musician.

Buck swallowed. “You really mean that?”

Eddie nodded. “You make things feel light.”

Buck smiled, softer now. “You make me want to know every boring fact about every city. Just so I can tell you.”

Eddie leaned in, just slightly. “Then I guess we’ve got a lot of cities to visit.”

Buck’s heart thudded.

Then, out of the blue, he turned to Eddie, eyes wide, voice dramatic.

“We cannot come to Paris and not go to the Tower!”

Eddie blinked. “The Eiffel Tower?”

Buck threw his arms up. “Yes! The Iron Lady! The sparkly giraffe of architecture! The global icon of romance and structural engineering!”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “You just called it a giraffe.”

Buck nodded solemnly. “A majestic, steel giraffe. And she sparkles. It’s basically her party trick.”

Eddie laughed. “You’re serious?”

Buck was already walking backwards toward the metro. “Dead serious. It’s open till midnight. We’ve got time. And I’ve got facts.”

Eddie groaned playfully. “Of course you do.”

They made their way toward Champ de Mars, Buck rattling off trivia like a caffeinated tour guide: Did you know it was originally built for the 1889 World’s Fair? It was almost torn down after 20 years! It has 20,000 lightbulbs. Took 25 climbers five months to install them!

Eddie just shook his head, smiling. “You’re really a walking wikipedia.”

Buck grinned. “You’re welcome.”

When they finally reached the tower, it was glowing gold against the night sky, shimmering like it knew they’d come just in time. The hourly sparkle began—twinkling lights dancing across the steel like magic.

Buck turned to Eddie, eyes soft. “See? Worth it.”

Eddie didn’t answer right away. He just looked at Buck, then at the tower, then back again.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said.

Buck smiled. “But charming.”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah. You are.”

And under the glittering lights of the Eiffel Tower, with trivia in the air and crepe crumbs on their jackets, Buck and Eddie stood side by side. They stood there, close enough for their shoulders to brush, close enough for Buck to feel the warmth of Eddie’s breath in the cool night air.

“You were right,” Eddie said, voice low. “We couldn’t come to Paris and not see this.”

Buck smiled. “She’s showing off for us.”

Eddie turned to him, and for a second, Buck forgot how to breathe.

The lights above sparkled like stars caught in motion, and Buck realized he wasn’t looking at the Tower anymore.

He was looking at Eddie.

Eddie stepped closer, the space between them folding like pages in a book. His hand brushed Buck’s—barely there, but enough to make Buck’s skin buzz.

“I’m glad you came,” Eddie whispered.

Buck’s voice was quiet. “I’d follow you anywhere.”

And then, without ceremony or hesitation, Eddie leaned in.

Their lips met in a silence so complete it felt sacred. Around them, the city exhaled softly: distant laughter from a passing boat on the Seine, the faint rustle of leaves stirred by a breeze that carried the scent of warm crepes and old stone. Above them, the Iron Lady shimmered, her golden lights cascading like falling stars, bathing the lovers in a glow that felt almost holy.

It was warm. Gentle. Like a promise spoken in silence.

Eddie’s breath caught as Buck’s hand slid against his cheek, fingers rough from years of work, yet tender in their touch. That simple gesture grounded him—anchored him to this moment, to this man. The kiss deepened—not dramatic, just deliberate. Like they’d both waited long enough and knew there was no need to rush what had already bloomed between them.

When they pulled apart, the lights were still sparkling. 

Eddie rested his forehead against Buck’s, eyes closed, breath steady, like he was memorizing the rhythm of Buck’s heartbeat through the space between them. The air between their skin was warm, charged, but peaceful.

Then Eddie opened his eyes.

The lights above them shimmered still, casting golden flecks across Buck’s face like the city had decided to paint him in starlight. His eyelashes caught the glow, his lips still parted, still tasting of the kiss. Buck was looking at Eddie like he was the only landmark worth visiting in Paris—like the Eiffel Tower could crumble and it wouldn’t matter.

No words. No teasing. Just that look.

And then Buck leaned in again.

This kiss was different.

Slower. Deeper. It carried the weight of everything they hadn’t said, everything they’d felt. Eddie’s hands found Buck’s jacket, gripping it lightly. Not to pull him closer, but to hold onto something real. To hold onto him.

The world around them blurred—the Tower, the tourists, the hum of the city. All of it faded. There was only Buck.

Only the way he kissed like he meant it. Only the way Eddie felt like he was finally, finally letting someone in. When they pulled apart, Buck didn’t speak. He just smiled, forehead still resting against Eddie’s, eyes half-lidded and full of something quiet and certain.

And under the glittering lights of the Eiffel Tower, Eddie Diaz let himself fall—slowly, surely, and with no intention of hitting the brakes

Chapter Text

You know how scared I am of elevators, never trusted it

If it rises fast, it can't last

Oh, oh, I'm falling in love

Oh, no, I'm falling in love again

Oh, I'm falling in love

Buck was halfway through his avocado toast when Maddie hit him with it.

“So,” she said, stirring her coffee like she was plotting something. “You’re glowing. Like, suspiciously glowing. Either you fell in love or you discovered a skincare routine that finally works.”

Buck wiped his mouth with a napkin, trying to play it cool. “We kissed. Once. Twice. Maybe three times. I lost count by midnight.”

Maddie gasped. “You kissed at midnight under the Eiffel Tower? That’s practically marriage in Paris.”

Buck rolled his eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

She leaned in. “You’re being evasive. Which means you’re emotionally compromised.”

Buck groaned. “Can’t I just enjoy my toast without being psychoanalyzed?”

“Nope,” Maddie said, sipping her coffee. “You’re my brother. It’s my job to ruin your brunch with feelings.”

Buck stabbed his toast. “You’re relentless.”

“And you’re in love.”

He paused.

Didn’t answer.

Just stared at the plate like it might offer an escape route.

Maddie softened. “You know, I’ve seen you chase a lot of things. Adventure. adrenaline. People who didn’t know how to stay.” Buck looked up. “But Eddie?” she said. “He is different.”

Buck swallowed hard. “It’s different.”

Maddie nodded. “Because it’s real?”

He leaned back, suddenly quiet. “I didn’t expect it. Not like this.”

Maddie reached across the table, squeezed his hand. “You deserve someone who likes you. All of you. Even the weird trivia parts.”

Buck smiled. “He likes the trivia.”

She grinned. “Then he’s a keeper.”

And just like that, the teasing faded into something softer. Something true.

Because beneath all the sarcasm and brunch banter, Maddie knew exactly what her brother needed.

“You kissed him. Under the most romantic landmark on Earth. After knowing him for fourteen days. That’s not a meet-cute, that’s a romantic speedrun.” She leaned back, arms crossed, smirking. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Buck said, definitely spiraling. “I’m just… confused. It’s fast. Too fast. But it doesn’t feel rushed.”

Buck looked down. “But what if it’s just Paris? The lights, the crepes, the magic of being somewhere else?”

Maddie reached across the table, her voice quiet now. “Then why are you still thinking about him here?”

Buck didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Brunch ended with Maddie giving him a smug hug and a whispered, “Go do something stupid and romantic.” Buck didn’t argue. He just walked out into the LA sun, heart thudding, fingers twitching like they were already halfway to dialing Eddie.

But he didn’t call.

He drove.

The rehearsal studio was tucked behind a row of cafés in Echo Park, the kind of place that looked like it had stories etched into the floorboards. Buck stood outside for a second, heart thudding, fingers curled around the folded map in his pocket.

He could hear Eddie’s voice inside—low, melodic, rehearsing something stripped down and acoustic. Buck didn’t recognize the song, but it didn’t matter. It was Eddie. 

He stepped in quietly, catching Eddie mid-verse, standing at the mic in a hoodie and jeans, headphones around his neck, eyes closed like he was somewhere else entirely.

Buck waited until the song faded, then cleared his throat.

Eddie looked up, surprised. “Hey. Didn’t expect you.”

Buck walked over, pulled the map from his pocket, and handed it to him.

Eddie unfolded it slowly. “What’s this?”

Buck nodded, voice quiet. “They’re the places we were before together Paris. The places I fell for you. Because I am. Falling. For you.”

Eddie’s breath caught.

He looked down at the map again, tracing the circles with his thumb. “You kept track?”

Buck shrugged, trying to play it off. “I didn’t mean to. I just… started noticing. Every time you laughed. Every time you looked at me like I wasn’t just another guy in the room.”

Eddie’s breath caught, his fingers tightening on the map as if it were the only thing tethering him to the ground. His eyes traced the little marks, the crooked handwriting, the memories Buck had mapped out like constellations.

When he finally looked up, his gaze locked on Buck’s—steady, unflinching, and so full of something Buck didn’t dare name out loud.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then Eddie let the map slip from his hands, fluttering to the floor forgotten, and closed the space between them in two determined steps. His hand came up to Buck’s jaw, warm and sure, pulling him into a kiss that was all the answer Buck needed.

Every unspoken word, every stolen glance, every moment that had built up to this—poured into that kiss, leaving no room for doubt.

When Eddie finally pulled back, their foreheads still pressed together, he whispered, almost breathless, “That’s what you mean to me.”

Buck’s eyes softened. “Is it too much?”

Eddie shook his head. “No. It’s just… more than I expected.”

He looked around the studio—guitar leaning against the wall, lyrics scribbled across sheet music, the mic still warm from his voice.

Then he looked back at Buck.

“You want to stay?” Eddie asked. “I was working on something new.”

Buck nodded. “Only if it’s about me.”

Eddie smirked. “It might be.”

He walked to the piano, sat down, and started playing something soft. Buck sat nearby, watching him like he was watching the sunrise.

The first notes drifted into the air, fragile but certain, and Buck felt them settle deep in his chest. Eddie’s hands moved over the keys with quiet confidence, his brow furrowed in concentration, lips parting as though words might follow.

Eddie’s fingers lingered on the keys, drawing out a soft, lingering chord before letting it fade. He tilted his head, smirking just enough to make Buck’s pulse trip over itself.

“You’re staring,” Eddie teased, voice low, warm.

Buck huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Can you blame me? I mean, you sit there, playing something like that, and then say it’s about me? Kinda unfair, don’t you think?”

Eddie arched a brow, pretending to return his focus to the piano. “Unfair?” he echoed, as if tasting the word. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pressed another key, letting the single note ring out. “Maybe I just like watching you squirm.”

Buck leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “Squirm? That’s what you’re going for?”

Eddie finally looked at him again, smirk deepening. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just waiting to see how long you last before you kiss me again.”

Buck let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking his head like Eddie had just challenged him to something impossible. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, eyes glittering with mischief.

“Oh, see, now you’re just tempting fate,” Buck said, voice low, teasing. “Because if that’s what you’re waiting for…” He stood slowly, closing the distance between them in a few lazy steps, “…I’m not exactly known for my patience.”

Eddie’s smirk faltered into something warmer, softer, his hands stilling on the keys.

Buck braced a hand on the piano beside him, leaning in close enough that Eddie could feel his breath. His smile was crooked, daring. “So tell me—how long do you really want me to last?”

Eddie leaned back slightly on the piano bench, pretending to think, though his eyes never left Buck’s. His fingers tapped idly against the wood, like he was counting beats only he could hear.

“Hm,” he hummed, lips curving. “Could be fun to drag it out. See you sweat a little.”

Buck chuckled, tilting his head. “You forget—I’m really good under pressure.”

Eddie arched a brow, smug. “Yeah? Prove it.”

Buck leaned even closer, their noses almost brushing, his grin equal parts challenge and promise. “Careful what you wish for, Diaz.”

For a moment, neither moved. The air between them thrummed, sharp with tension, soft with something deeper. Then, as if they’d both run out of patience at the same second, Eddie grabbed the front of Buck’s shirt and pulled him in.

The kiss landed hot and certain, the kind that tasted of laughter just swallowed and words too big to say.

When they broke apart, Buck was breathless, smiling against Eddie’s lips. 

Eddie lingered close after the kiss, his hand still fisted lightly in Buck’s shirt, like letting go would break the spell. Then, almost reluctantly, he eased back onto the bench. His fingers hovered over the keys again, searching for the melody he’d started, but when he pressed down, the notes came out scattered, hesitant.

He frowned, trying again, only for the chords to trip over each other.

Buck, still standing at his side, leaned down a little, listening. “You’re reaching too far on that transition,” he said gently. He pointed, his fingertip hovering just above the keys. “Try moving from here instead—it’ll flow smoother.”

Eddie blinked, surprised. “And how do you know that?”

Buck gave a small, almost sheepish smile, sliding onto the bench beside him. “I used to mess around on a keyboard when I was a kid. Never got good, but… I know enough to fake it.”

Eddie stared at him for a long second, like this was a whole new layer of Buck he hadn’t expected. Then he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Of course. You run through a stadium like it’s an easy thing, it’s a human wikipedia, keep a secret piano hobby… anything else I should know about you?”

Buck bumped his shoulder lightly, grinning. “Plenty. But I thought I’d save a few surprises for later.”

Eddie shifted on the bench, giving Buck just enough room. “Alright then. Show me.”

Buck laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “I didn’t say I was good. Just… decent at pretending.” Still, he placed his hands on the keys, tentative at first, pressing a few notes that stitched into Eddie’s melody.

Eddie picked it up instantly, matching him, weaving Buck’s uncertain rhythm into something smooth and deliberate. The two of them found a pattern, trading chords, filling the room with a sound that was clumsy and perfect at the same time.

Buck glanced sideways, catching the way Eddie was grinning despite himself, like he hadn’t smiled that freely in weeks.

“You hear that?” Eddie said, fingers still moving. “That’s not bad.”

Buck chuckled. “That’s all you, trust me.”

“Nope,” Eddie cut in, giving him a sidelong look. “You’re in this now. I’m putting your name as co-author when it’s finished.”

Buck blinked, caught off guard, then laughed. “Co-author? Eddie, I hit, like, five keys.”

Eddie shrugged, still playing, but his voice softened. “Doesn’t matter. It’s a song about you, with your melody in it. Should have your name too.”

The music slowed, tapering into silence, but the weight of Eddie’s words lingered. Buck sat there, staring at him, a little stunned.

“What would your fans think about it?” Buck asks.

“My fans?” he echoed.

Buck smirked, leaning back a little, his voice carrying that mix of humor and self-mockery only he could pull off. “Yeah. All those people who hang on your every lyric. What do you think they’ll say when they find out you’ve been writing songs with a quarterback instead of another songwriter?”

Eddie huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Please. You’re not just a quarterback—you’re Evan Buckley. Golden boy of L.A. Half the headlines already have your name in them. Plus, everyone knows we are… something to each other. I won’t put it, if you don’t want to.”

“It’s your song. It’s up to you.”

“It’s your name.” 

Buck smiks. “We will be here all day doing this, right?”

Eddie’s smile was capable of enlightening an entire city. “See? You’ve got this fast. You know, I didn’t expect you to be this good at dodging compliments.”

Buck glanced up, eyes warm. “I didn’t expect you to be this good at giving them.”

Eddie shrugged. “I’m full of surprises.”

Buck’s voice dropped, softer now. “You’re full of something.”

Eddie grinned. “Charm. Wit. Devastating cheekbones.”

Buck laughed, but it faded quickly into something quieter, when he sees Eddie looked down at the map, still folded beside him on the bench. 

“You really circled all those places?”

Buck nodded. “Every time I felt it. That shift. That moment where I knew I wasn’t just hanging out with a guy—I was falling.”

Eddie swallowed hard, the weight of it settling in his chest. “You’re not making this easy.”

Buck tilted his head. “Do you want it to be easy?”

Eddie looked at him, eyes steady. “No. I want it to be real.”

He looked at Buck—really looked at him. The messy hair, the crooked smile, the way he always seemed to be halfway between a joke and a confession.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Buck said.

Eddie nodded. “Good. Because I think this song needs a second verse.”

Chapter Text

Lost in the labyrinth of my mind

Break up, break free, break through, break down

The house was quiet when Eddie stepped inside. Late afternoon light spilled across the hardwood floors, warm and familiar. He dropped his bag by the door, still carrying the folded map Buck had given him—creased, worn, and somehow heavier than paper should be.

Christopher was on the couch, legs curled under him, headphones on, watching something animated and loud. He looked up when Eddie walked in and pulled the headphones off with a grin.

“Hey, Dad. Why are you with that squinty look?”

Eddie walked over, sat beside him, and pulled the map from his pocket. “Buck gave me this.”

Christopher leaned in. “Is that Paris?”

Eddie nodded. “And LA. Places we’ve been. Places he says he started falling for me.”

Christopher blinked. “Whoa.”

Eddie smiled. “Yeah. Whoa.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that only happens between people who know each other’s rhythms. Then Christopher asked, “Do you like him?”

Eddie looked at his son, heart thudding. “I do.”

Christopher tilted his head. “Like… like-like?”

Eddie laughed. “Yeah. Like-like.”

Christopher grinned. “Cool. He’s funny. And he brought me that weird chocolate from France.”

Eddie nodded. “He’s a lot. But he’s good. He makes things feel… lighter.”

Christopher leaned against him. “You’ve been lighter lately.”

Eddie swallowed hard. “I’ve been trying.”

Christopher looked up. “You don’t have to try so hard. You’re allowed to be happy.”

Eddie closed his eyes for a second, letting that sink in.

Then he wrapped an arm around his son and pulled him close.

“When did you get so smart, kiddo?”

Christopher didn’t miss a beat. “Somewhere along the years of surviving your dating history.”

Eddie laughed, full and unguarded. That kid was unbelievable.

*

Two weeks had passed since Buck handed him the map.

Fourteen days of small moments that stitched themselves into something bigger.

One night, Buck texted “You up?”, and Eddie replied with “yes”. They sat on Eddie’s porch with mugs of coffee, talking about childhood, fear, and the weird ache of wanting something you’re not sure you deserve. Buck said, “I’ve never felt this safe with someone.” Eddie didn’t answer. He just reached out and held his hand.

The next day, they started what Chris would call a tradition. Buck showed up in sunglasses and a hoodie, trying to look inconspicuous and failing spectacularly. Christopher was thrilled—he’d been wanting to see the new penguin exhibit, and Buck made it ten times better by narrating their waddles like a nature documentary. 

“Observe,” Buck whispered dramatically, “the majestic tuxedoed gentleman, sliding into his afternoon nap like he’s clocking out of a Wall Street job.” 

Christopher nearly dropped his slushie from laughing. Eddie just shook his head, grinning. But halfway through the reptile house, someone snapped a photo. Then another. And suddenly, they weren’t just three guys at the zoo—they were Buckley and Diaz, the internet’s favorite maybe-couple. 

“Run,” Buck said, eyes wide, grabbing Eddie’s hand. 

“Seriously?” Eddie asked, already moving. 

“I’m not getting memed next to a Komodo dragon!” They dashed through the zoo, laughing like idiots, Christopher trailing behind with a grin that could power the city. 

They ducked into the butterfly garden, breathless and hiding behind a fake waterfall. “This is ridiculous,” Eddie said, panting. 

Buck grinned. “This is us.” 

Christopher just rolled his eyes. “You two are so dramatic.”

Two days later, Buck brought over three different kinds of popcorn and a blanket that smelled like his cologne. Christopher rolled his eyes at their bickering over which Marvel movie to watch, then fell asleep halfway through. Eddie caught Buck watching him more than the screen. Buck didn’t deny it.

Eddie invited Buck to sit in on rehearsals. Buck didn’t say much—just watched, listened, and occasionally scribbled notes on Eddie’s lyric sheets. One afternoon, Eddie caught him humming a melody he hadn’t shared yet. Buck shrugged. “It was stuck in my head.” Eddie didn’t tell him it was the chorus to a song he hadn’t finished because he wasn’t sure how to say I’m falling for you too.

Now, Eddie stood in the kitchen, watching Buck and Christopher argue over pancake toppings like they’d been doing it for years.

Buck looked up, catching Eddie’s gaze. “You know we’ve spent almost every day together since Paris?”

Eddie smirked. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

Buck leaned back, smiling. “It’s not. It’s kind of perfect.”

Eddie poured the batter into the pan, heart thudding. “Yeah. It is.”

It was the kind of Tuesday that didn’t ask for much—just sunlight, a breeze, and nowhere urgent to be.

Until it wasn’t.

Chapter Text

Tommy Kinard Opens Up About Eddie Diaz in Emotional Interview: “Some People Move On Too Fast”

In a candid new episode of The Spotlight Sessions, actor Tommy Kinard stirred headlines and hearts alike with a cryptic reflection on his past relationship with singer Eddie Diaz—just weeks after Diaz was spotted at the L.A. Zoo with football star Evan Buckley.

Kinard, known for his roles in Silver Halo and The Last Verse, didn’t hold back when asked about his former flame.

“It was real,” Kinard said, eyes misty. “Very real. Eddie’s… special. Still is.”

The interview, which aired Monday night, quickly went viral after Kinard dropped what fans are calling a “loaded lyric” moment.

“I think some people move on before they understand what they’re leaving behind.”

While Kinard didn’t name Buckley directly, the timing was hard to ignore. Diaz and Buckley have been spotted together multiple times in recent weeks, including a now-infamous zoo outing that sparked romance rumors after a fan-captured photo showed them holding hands.

Kinard’s comments have reignited speculation about the nature of his split with Diaz, and whether the actor’s latest press tour is more about heartbreak than Hollywood.

Social media reactions have been mixed. Some fans are calling Kinard’s remarks “raw and vulnerable,” while others accuse him of “emotional PR” and “strategic nostalgia.”

Meanwhile, Diaz has remained silent, and Buckley has yet to comment publicly. Sources close to the pair say they’re “focused on each other, not the noise.”

Whether Kinard’s words were a genuine reflection or a calculated move, one thing’s clear: the love triangle that fans thought was over might just be entering its next act.

Chapter Text

We gather stones, never knowing what they'll mean

Some to throw, some to make a diamond ring

You know I didn't want to have to haunt you

But what a ghostly scene

You wear the same jewels that I gave you

As you bury me

Eddie sat at the table, scrolling through his phone, half-reading headlines, half-watching Buck move like he belonged there.

Then he saw it.

“Tommy Kinard Opens Up About Eddie Diaz: ‘Some People Move On Too Fast’”

The article was everywhere—Entertainment Weekly, BuzzPop, even trending on Twitter. Quotes pulled from Tommy’s interview, photos from old events, speculation layered over speculation.

Buck turned, plate in hand. “You want toast or—”

Eddie didn’t answer.

Buck saw his face and stopped. “What is it?”

Eddie handed him the phone.

Buck read in silence. His jaw tightened. “Wow. He really went for it.”

Eddie nodded, eyes distant.

Buck set the plate down. “You okay?”

Eddie stood, walked to the window. The sunlight felt too bright. The room too loud. The article too invasive.

“I need a minute,” he said quietly.

Buck stepped closer. “Eddie—”

“I just…” Eddie turned, voice tight. “I need to be alone. Please.”

*

The silence felt earned.

Eddie had asked Buck to leave, and Buck had listened. No arguments. No guilt. Just a quiet nod and the soft click of the door closing behind him. For a while, Eddie told himself that was good. That space was healthy. That he needed time to breathe, to think, to sort through the noise without someone watching him do it.

He spent the first day convincing himself he was okay.

He cleaned the kitchen twice. Reorganized the spice rack. Took Christopher to school and didn’t flinch when the receptionist asked if he’d seen the article. He smiled, nodded, said something neutral. Came home. Sat on the couch. Stared at the wall.

He wasn’t spiraling. He was just… processing.

But by the second night, the quiet stopped feeling earned. It started feeling familiar. Too familiar.

Because this wasn’t the first time Eddie had gone silent to survive.

Tommy used to call it “cooling off.” After fights. After guilt-trips disguised as concern. After Eddie tried to set boundaries and Tommy made him feel like he was being dramatic. The silence back then wasn’t peaceful—it was punishment. A way to make Eddie question himself. To make him come back crawling.

And now, with Tommy back in the headlines, Eddie felt the old patterns stirring.

He hadn’t thought about Tommy in months. Not really. Not deeply. But seeing his face on every screen, hearing his voice in interviews, reading his words—“Some people move on too fast”—it was like being pulled into a current he thought he’d escaped.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t sure he was totally clean of it.

He still flinched when someone raised their voice. Still hesitated before saying what he wanted. Still felt that creeping guilt when he chose himself over someone else’s expectations.

He hadn’t told Buck everything.

Not about the fights. Not about the manipulation. Not about the way Tommy made him feel like love was something earned through silence and sacrifice.

And now, Buck was out there—waiting, wondering, hurting—and Eddie was here, shutting down like he used to. Not because Buck was like Tommy. But because Eddie hadn’t fully unlearned the fear.

He sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, Buck’s last message still unread.

“I’m here. When you’re ready.”

Eddie wanted to be ready.

But he wasn't.

So, instead, he put the phone aside. And let the darkness pull him into her arms, once again.

Chapter Text

Hey, it's all me, in my head

I'm the one who burned us down

But it's not what I meant

I'm sorry that I hurt you

I don't wanna do this to you

I don't wanna lose this with you

Eddie woke to the muted glow of his phone screen on the nightstand. He let his arms fall to the mattress, every muscle frozen in exhaustion. He tried to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, but they trembled like saplings in a storm. His hands gripped the sheets, knuckles white, as he fought the pull of the mattress beneath him. For a long moment, he simply lay there, too heavy to move, too trapped in his own body to even sit up.

When he finally managed to plant his feet on the floor, a wave of vertigo washed over him. The room spun, the walls breathing in and out like lungs. He stumbled toward the bathroom, each step a battle between mind and muscle. He pressed a hand against the cool tile, arms shaking so badly the faucet handle rattled under his grip. Water splashed onto his face, but the cold couldn’t wash away the fog that clouded his thoughts.

He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. His eyes looked distant—like someone else was peering back at him. He reached up to rub his forehead, but his arm fell back to his side, too drained to finish the motion. The article’s words echoed in his skull, louder than any sound in the house. He stood there for minutes, anchored to the tiles, helpless against the tide of panic rising in his chest.

The kitchen was warm by midday, sunlight streaming through the blinds in narrow stripes. Eddie slid a mug from the cabinet, hands trembling so violently the ceramic threatened to slip. He forced himself to the counter, bracing his weight on both elbows, and poured coffee one shaky drop at a time. It was lukewarm by the time he made it to the table, but he didn’t care. He wrapped both hands around the mug, desperate for something—anything—to steady him.

He checked his phone again: no new messages from Buck. No missed calls. Just the same notification blinking in the corner: the article still trending. He tried to text Hen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, but every tap felt like he was pressing through thick clay. He set the phone down and buried his face in his hands. The ache in his chest felt familiar, like guilt—only this time there was nothing to atone for.

His legs gave out beneath him without warning, and he slid from the chair to the floor. He curled into a ball, pressing his forehead against the cold hardwood, wishing the world would stop. All he could hear was the soft hum of the refrigerator and the far-off voices of neighbors living lives that made sense. For a moment, he let himself believe he might never find the will to stand again.

By dusk, the apartment lights cast long shadows across the floor. Eddie remained on the ground, hip pressed against the baseboard, phone still in his lap. He tried to dial Buck’s number, thumb hovering above the screen, but he couldn’t bring himself to press the call button. He crumpled the phone in his fist and let it clatter onto the tiles. His breath was shallow, each inhale a reminder of how little space he felt he had.

He whispered apologies into the dim room, though there was no one there to hear them. Each apology felt heavier than the last, like the words were stones sinking into his chest. He tried to push himself upright but his hands slid across the glossy floor. Panic fluttered in his ribs, and tears gathered unbidden in the corners of his eyes. He closed them, willing the slash of brightness from the window to dim.

When the quiet finally broke, it was with the distant sound of Christopher’s key in the lock. Eddie’s heart seized, but he couldn’t move. He lay still as Christopher padded inside, backpack thumping against the door. His son called out, “Dad?” twice before Eddie realized he hadn’t answered. Christopher’s footsteps faded as he left the room again, and the silence settled back in, colder this time.

The darkness wrapped around Eddie like an old blanket, safe yet suffocating. He lay on his back, eyes tracing the shifting patterns of a ceiling fan’s shadow. Every rotation felt like a heartbeat—steady, relentless—pulling him back to the nights with Tommy. He could almost hear the echo of that first argument, the sharp crack of words heavier than their meaning.

He remembered the laughter that turned brittle when Tommy’s teasing crossed into criticism. “You’re too sensitive,” Tommy would say, voice soft but edged with contempt. And Eddie would laugh along, shrinking inside to keep the peace. The silence afterward was a punishment more brutal than any fight—Tommy’s back turned, bed empty on one side, leaving Eddie staring at his own reflection in the dark.

He recalled the countless mornings waking alone, pillow damp from tears, guilt creeping in like fog. Every boundary Eddie tried to set became a test Tommy exploited. “If you really cared,” he’d whisper, “you wouldn’t push me away.” Eddie complied, retracted his needs, convinced himself he was selfish for wanting kindness.

In the hush of his apartment, Eddie felt the old pattern stir. He saw himself at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, refusing Buck’s questions—just as he once refused Tommy confrontation. He’d mastered silence as armor, not realizing it also caged him. Now, the armor felt too heavy, each moment of retreat a brick added to a wall he couldn’t scale.

He thought of Buck’s gentle persistence, so different from the storms Tommy brewed. Buck’s patience glowed in his mind—warm, inviting—yet Eddie terrified himself by imagining disappointing him. He could almost hear Tommy’s voice again: “Don’t expect people to wait around.” The words stung anew, convincing him that vulnerability meant betrayal.

Memories bled together: the time Tommy accused Eddie of overreacting when he asked for honesty; the afternoons spent apologizing for emotions Tommy deemed inconvenient. He had internalized that error was unlovable, that love demanded compliance. The ache in his chest pulsed with the realization that he’d carried those lessons into every relationship since.

Night deepened, and Eddie pressed his palms into his eyes, willing the past to dissolve. He whispered an apology to himself—for every time he silenced his own voice. He vowed he wouldn’t let another silence define him. And even as exhaustion claimed him, he held onto that promise, fragile but unbroken.

*

Four days had passed since Eddie asked him to leave. Buck hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t called. Just sent quiet texts—gentle reminders that he was there, waiting, ready. But none of them had been read. 

And now, sitting alone in his apartment, Buck felt the weight of it settle in his chest like wet cement.

He kept replaying the moment Eddie shut down. The way his voice had tightened. The way he couldn’t meet Buck’s eyes. It wasn’t just stress. It wasn’t just pressure. It was fear. And Buck had seen that look before—on calls, in rescues, in people who were trying to hold themselves together with duct tape and denial.

He didn’t want to assume. But he couldn’t ignore the feeling either.

Something was wrong.

Not between them. Not really. But inside Eddie.

Buck had always known Eddie carried things quietly. That he didn’t talk about the past unless it was absolutely necessary. But now, with Tommy back in the headlines, painting himself as the wounded romantic, Buck was starting to wonder what Eddie hadn’t said.

Because this wasn’t just about a breakup.

This was about something deeper. Something that still had claws.

Buck leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, heart thudding.

He wanted to go to Eddie’s house. Knock on the door. Say, “You don’t have to explain everything. Just let me in.”

But he didn’t.

Because if Eddie was still tangled in something painful, Buck didn’t want to be another voice demanding clarity.

He wanted to be the one who waited. Who stayed. 

And, for that, he hadn’t planned to say anything. But, being an athlete with a heated head, he couldn't avoid what happened on the morning of the fourth day.

The interview was supposed to be about the season—, team dynamics, his recovery from last year’s shoulder injury, the first victory of the year. But the host had other plans.

“So, Evan,” she said, smiling like she was about to stir the pot, “you’ve been making headlines off the field lately. Zoo dates, mystery songs, and of course… Tommy Kinard’s interview. Care to comment?”

Buck smiled, the kind he gave defensive linemen right before juking past them. “Didn’t realize my personal life was more interesting than a playoff run.”

The host laughed. “Well, Tommy did say some things. About Eddie Diaz. About you. About moving on too fast.”

Buck leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice steady. “Tommy’s an actor. He knows how to deliver a line. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

The host blinked. “So… you’re saying it wasn’t?”

Buck shrugged. “I’m saying if you want to know Eddie Diaz, ask someone who’s actually earned the right to.”

The room went quiet.

Buck continued, eyes locked in. “Eddie’s one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. He’s been through more than most people know, and he doesn’t owe anyone a damn thing. Least of all someone who’s using his name to stay relevant.”

The host cleared her throat. “So… are you two—”

Buck cut in. “We’re figuring it out. And we’re doing it out of the spotlight, and without anyone else’s permission.”

*

When Christopher had sent the link with a single text: “Watch it.”, he didn’t know what to expect.

Eddie clicked.

And there was Buck—calm, composed, but unmistakably protective. Every word was a quiet defense. Every glance was a message. I see you. I choose you. Even when you’re silent.

Eddie’s chest tightened.

He hadn’t realized how much Buck had been holding. How much he’d been shielding. And now, Eddie felt the weight of his own silence pressing down like guilt.

He grabbed his phone and dialed.

Buck answered on the second ring. “Hey.”

Eddie didn’t speak right away. Just breathed.

Then, “I saw the interview.”

Buck hesitated. “Was it okay? I didn’t mean to—”

“It was more than okay,” Eddie said, voice rough. “It was honest. And I needed it.”

Buck exhaled. “I wasn’t trying to push you. I just… couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t care.”

Eddie closed his eyes. “You didn’t push. You reminded me.”

Buck was quiet. “Of what?”

“That I’m not alone,” Eddie said. And just like that, the silence broke.

Eddie sat on the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear, heart thudding like it was trying to outrun the moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, voice low. “For shutting you out. For making you carry the silence.”

Buck breathed in, slow. “You don’t have to apologize for needing space.”

“I do,” Eddie said. “Because I didn’t just take space. I disappeared. I let the past speak louder than you. And you didn’t deserve that.”

Buck was quiet again. Then, “I figured it wasn’t just about me.”

“It wasn’t,” Eddie said. “It was Tommy. It was everything I didn’t say. Everything I thought I’d buried.”

He stood, pacing the room. “I told myself I was fine. That I’d moved on. But seeing him again—he knows how to twist things. How to make me doubt myself. And I didn’t want you to see that. I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

Buck’s voice was soft. “I already have.”

Eddie stopped. “What?”

“I’ve seen you scared,” Buck said. “I’ve seen you angry. I’ve seen you quiet and loud and everything in between. And I’ve never once thought less of you.”

Eddie swallowed hard.

“I just wanted you to let me in,” Buck continued. “Not to fix it. Just to be there.”

Eddie sat down again, the weight of Buck’s words settling into his chest like warmth instead of pressure.

“I want that,” he said. “I want you here. I just… I’m still learning how.”

Buck’s voice cracked a little. “Then let’s learn together.”

Eddie closed his eyes. “Can you come over?”

*

Buck stood in the doorway, ten minutes later, rain still clinging to his jacket, eyes soft but searching.

Eddie didn’t speak right away. He just stepped aside, letting Buck in like he was letting the air back into the room.

They sat on the couch, close but not touching. The silence wasn’t heavy anymore. It was waiting.

Eddie stared at his hands. “I’ve never told anyone the full story. Not even my therapist. Not really.”

Buck didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

Eddie exhaled. “Tommy wasn’t always cruel. That’s the part that messes with you. He was charming. Thoughtful. He’d write songs about me. Even though he is an actor. Leave notes in my guitar case. Make me feel like I was the center of the universe.”

He paused. “Until I wasn’t.”

Buck’s jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet.

Eddie continued. “It started small. He’d get jealous. Ask why I was texting Karen so much. Why I spent so much time with Christopher. He’d say he felt ‘left out.’ That I was ‘choosing other people.’ And I believed him. I thought I was doing something wrong.”

He swallowed. “Then came the guilt. The emotional whiplash. He’d disappear for days, then come back with flowers and apologies. He’d cry. Say he was scared of losing me. That he didn’t know how to love right.”

Eddie looked up. “And I tried to fix him. I thought if I just loved him harder, he’d stop hurting me.”

Buck’s eyes were glassy now, but he didn’t speak.

Eddie’s voice cracked. “He never hit me. But he knew how to make me feel small. How to twist my words. How to make me question my own memory. I stopped writing music. I stopped laughing. I stopped being me.”

He wiped his face. “And when I finally left, he made sure I felt like the villain. Told people I abandoned him. That I was cold. That I never really loved him.”

Buck reached out, gently placing a hand over Eddie’s.

Eddie looked down. “So when he started showing up in the press again, saying things like ‘some people move on too fast’—it wasn’t just annoying. It was terrifying. Like he was pulling me back into that version of myself I fought so hard to escape.”

Buck squeezed his hand. “You’re not that version anymore.”

Eddie nodded, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I know. But I needed you to know why I shut down. Why I couldn’t speak. It wasn’t about you. It was about the ghosts.”

Buck leaned in, forehead resting against Eddie’s. “I’m not afraid of your ghosts. I just want to be here when you finally stop running from them.”

And for the first time in a long time, Eddie didn’t feel haunted.

He felt held.

Chapter Text

Shirts off, and your friends lift you up over their heads

Beer stickin' to the floor, cheers chanted 'cause they said

There was no chance trying to be the greatest in the league

Where's the trophy? He just comes, running over to me

The stadium was electric.

Sixty thousand fans. Blinding lights. The scent of turf and sweat and adrenaline thick in the air. Buck stood on the sideline, helmet in hand, heart thudding in rhythm with the bass of the pre-game music.

He should’ve been locked in.

This was his job. His moment. Third game of the season, national coverage, playoff implications. But his mind kept drifting—to Eddie’s voice on the phone. The way it cracked when he said “I’m sorry.” The way it softened when he said “I want you here.”

Buck hadn’t slept much the night before. Not because he was nervous about the game. But because he kept replaying Eddie’s story. The pain. The guilt. The silence. The way Tommy had twisted love into something unrecognizable.

And now, Buck was angry.

Not at Eddie. Never at Eddie.

But at the world that made someone like Eddie believe he had to suffer quietly. That made him think love had to be earned through endurance.

The whistle blew. Kickoff.

Buck snapped into motion, helmet on, eyes sharp. First quarter flew by—quick passes, tight coverage, a touchdown that felt like muscle memory. But underneath it all, the emotion simmered.

Second quarter. Buck lined up wide, cornerback pressing close. The ball snapped. Buck exploded off the line, cut inside, then out, then back again—shaking the defender like he was shedding ghosts.

The pass came high. Buck leapt.

Caught it.

Touchdown.

The crowd erupted. His teammates swarmed.

Final whistle.

Game won.

The stadium roared like thunder, but Buck didn’t hear it. His blood was rushing too loud, his heart pounding with something bigger than victory.

He turned, scanning the sideline.

And there he was.

Eddie.

Already halfway down the field, pushing past security, Maddie laughing behind him, Christopher sprinting to keep up. Buck didn’t wait for the trophy. Didn’t wait for the cameras. He dropped his helmet and ran.

Straight to him.

Eddie collided into Buck like gravity had been pulling them together all game. No words. No hesitation. Just hands on shoulders, breathless smiles, and then—

They kissed.

Electric. Unapologetic. Right there in the middle of the field, under the lights, in front of everyone.

The crowd didn’t gasp. They cheered.

Teammates whooped. Coaches clapped. 

Buck pulled back, forehead resting against Eddie’s. He laughed, loud and free, because for the first time in a long time, the win wasn’t just on the scoreboard.

It was in his arms.

He didn’t care about the headlines tomorrow. Didn’t care about the slow-motion replays or the post-game interviews. All that mattered was the way Eddie looked at him—like Buck was the only thing in the world worth running toward.

Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted questions. But Buck and Eddie didn’t move. They stood there, tangled in each other, the noise fading into something distant and irrelevant.

Because this was the real victory.

And as the confetti began to fall, swirling like snow in the stadium air, Buck knew one thing for certain:

He’d caught more than a touchdown tonight.

*

The evening air in Kansas City was thick with the scent of victory and barbecue smoke, the streets still humming with the echoes of the crowd’s roar. The game had ended hours before, yet the city pulsed with a kind of jubilant fatigue, as if the very bricks of the buildings had cheered alongside the fans.

Buck, ever the embodiment of restless energy, strode ahead of the group with a grin that refused to fade. His cheeks were flushed from shouting, his voice hoarse, and his hoodie bore the unmistakable stain of stadium nachos—a badge of honor, he claimed.

Eddie walked beside him, quieter, his steps measured. There was a steadiness to his presence, a calm that counterbalanced Buck’s exuberance. He spoke little, but when he did, it was with the kind of dry wit that made Buck laugh louder than the joke deserved.

Behind them, Chimney and Maddie followed arm in arm. Chimney, with his foam finger still clutched like a relic, recounted the game’s final moments with theatrical flair, while Maddie listened with a smile that softened the sharpness of the night.

They arrived at Joe’s Bar-B-Que, a modest establishment whose fame far outstripped its size. Inside, the walls were lined with photographs of champions and dreamers, and the air was rich with the perfume of smoked meats and nostalgia.

They took a booth near the window, the city lights casting long shadows across their faces.

“I feel like I’m about to fall in love,” Buck declared, eyeing the platter of ribs set before him.

“With the food or the moment?” Eddie asked, his tone unreadable but his eyes amused.

“Both,” Buck replied, already reaching for a rib.

Chimney, ever the culinary philosopher, launched into a soliloquy on the virtues of Kansas City sauce, while Maddie gently corrected his exaggerations with a raised brow and a quiet laugh.

The meal passed in a flurry of conversation and shared glances. Buck and Eddie, though seated across from one another, seemed to orbit the same rhythm—finishing each other’s thoughts, teasing with the ease of old friends who had weathered storms together. Maddie and Chimney, meanwhile, spoke in the language of lovers who had learned to find joy in the ordinary.

Later, at a bowling alley whose neon lights flickered like memories, they split into teams. Buck and Eddie dubbed themselves “Team Buddie,” a name that made Chimney groan and Maddie giggle.

“Prepare to witness greatness,” Buck said, holding the bowling ball like a sacred artifact.

The game unfolded with laughter and light-hearted sabotage. Maddie kept score with hearts and stars, Chimney narrated each throw with the gravity of a sports announcer, and Buck celebrated every strike with a dance that defied rhythm.

As the night waned, they found themselves atop a rooftop bar, the city sprawling beneath them like a living tapestry. The wind was gentle, the music soft, and the moment—quiet.

Chimney raised his glass.

“To beating the Chiefs and Buck’s bowling form.”

“And to nights like this,” Maddie added, her voice low. “Where we get to just be.”

Later, the hotel stood tall against the Kansas City skyline, its windows catching the last glimmers of neon as the night surrendered to quiet. Inside, the lobby was hushed, save for the soft shuffle of footsteps and the distant hum of elevators. The four of them entered together, laughter still lingering in their voices, the warmth of the evening clinging to their clothes like perfume.

Buck dropped onto one of the lobby couches with theatrical exhaustion.

“I think I pulled a muscle in my soul,” he said, head tilted back, eyes closed.

Eddie, standing beside him, offered a faint smile.

Chimney approached the front desk, ever the practical one, confirming their adjoining rooms while Maddie leaned against the marble counter, her fingers tracing idle patterns.

Upstairs, the rooms were modest but comfortable. The kind of place where the sheets smelled faintly of starch and the lamps cast a golden glow that softened everything it touched.

In Buck and Eddie’s room, the air was quiet. Buck sat on the edge of the bed, unlacing his shoes slowly, as if reluctant to let go of the night.

“You ever have one of those days,” he murmured, “where everything feels... right?”

Eddie, brushing his teeth in the bathroom, paused.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “And you don’t want it to end.”

“Exactly.”

In the room next door, Maddie curled into Chimney’s side, her head resting on his shoulder. They spoke in whispers, not out of necessity, but because the quiet felt sacred.

“They’re good together,” Maddie said, eyes closed.

“Buck and Eddie?” Chimney chuckled. “They’re like gravity. Always pulling toward each other.”

“And we’re just lucky enough to orbit nearby.”

*

Morning arrived with the hush of early light. The city was still, wrapped in fog and the promise of departure. Downstairs, the team was already gathering—duffel bags slung over shoulders, coffee clutched like lifelines.

Normally, the WAGs—wives and girlfriends—did not fly with the team. It was an unspoken rule, a tradition rooted in logistics and formality. But this time, an exception had been made. Perhaps it was the camaraderie of the trip, or the quiet understanding that some bonds defied categories.

“They’re letting you guys fly with us,” Buck said, a note of wonder in his voice. “Guess they finally realized Maddie’s better at organizing than half the staff.”

They boarded the plane together, settling into seats that felt more like home than any hotel room. Buck took the window, Eddie beside him. Across the aisle, Maddie and Chimney shared a quiet laugh over a crossword puzzle.

The chartered jet sliced through the clouds, its cabin filled with the low thrum of engines and the easy banter of men who had just walked off the field victorious. Buck lounged with his cleats kicked off, socks mismatched, tossing almonds at Jordan, who swatted them away with the reflexes of a cornerback. Jenkins was half-asleep, with a book in hands.

“You’re like a golden retriever with snacks,” Jordan muttered, grinning.

Ravi sat near the front, earbuds out, watching the group with quiet amusement, his hoodie pulled up like he was hiding from the post-game press. It was him who broke the rhythm.

“You know what I’ve just realized? We’ve heard Buck sing off-key in the showers, Jordan hum Drake during warmups, and Chimney freestyle in the ice bath. But we’ve never heard Eddie sing live.”

The cabin quieted, not out of obligation, but curiosity. Eddie Diaz looked up from his phone. His expression didn’t change, but a faint flush crept up his neck.

“I sing for work,” he said, voice low. 

Jordan leaned over the seat, eyebrows raised.

“Come on, man. You’ve got Grammys. You performed a three hour show basically every weeknd. You’re literally Eddie Diaz. And you’re telling me you’re shy now?”

Buck chuckled, nudging Eddie’s arm.

“I’ve seen you belt out a ballad in front of seventy thousand people. But I get it. Singing for these creeps is scarier than singing for strangers.”

Eddie pocketed his phone, exhaled slowly, and glanced around. Maddie gave him a gentle nod. Chimney raised his brows in encouragement. Ravi offered a quiet thumbs-up. Buck just waited, patient and open.

And then, without ceremony, Eddie began.

His voice was low at first—unadorned, unaccompanied. A Spanish ballad, stripped of production, raw and intimate. The melody curled through the cabin like smoke, soft and haunting.

The team fell silent. Even the flight attendants paused in the aisle.

When he finished, the silence lingered—not out of politeness, but reverence.

“You sound different when it’s just you,” Buck said quietly.

Eddie looked at him, the flush still on his cheeks.

Ravi clapped softly. Jordan gave a low whistle. Chimney wiped at his eyes, pretending it was turbulence. Maddie reached across the aisle and squeezed Eddie’s hand.

The plane touched down in Los Angeles just after noon, the sun casting long shadows across the tarmac. As the wheels kissed the ground, a ripple of applause moved through the cabin—not for the landing, but for the weekend. For the win. For the memories.

Inside the terminal, the team moved like a unit—duffel bags slung over shoulders, headphones on, jokes flying like passes. Buck and Jordan raced each other to baggage claim, Ravi filmed it for the team’s group chat, and Chimney tried to convince Maddie that his foam finger was a legitimate carry-on.

Eddie walked quietly among them, hoodie up, sunglasses on. 

“Alright,” Jordan called out, standing on a bench. “Moment of truth. Who’s the MVP of the trip?”

“Buck,” Ravi said instantly. “For surviving three ribs, two beers, and one failed attempt to ride a mechanical bull at the post-game.”

“I maintain that bull was defective,” Buck replied, rubbing his shoulder.

“Nah,” Chimney said, grinning. “MVP goes to Eddie. For singing like a damn angel at 30,000 feet.”

The room quieted for a beat, then erupted in agreement.

Eddie, still seated, flushed again. He shook his head, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

“You guys are ridiculous,” he said.

“We’re serious,” Buck said, dropping onto the bench beside him. “You gave us a moment. That’s rare.”

Someone tossed Eddie a water bottle like it was a trophy. He caught it, laughed, and raised it in mock salute.

The laughter rolled through the room like thunder. And in that moment—amid the gear, the sweat, the teasing—they weren’t stars or stats or headlines. They were just men who had each other’s backs. On the ground, in the air, and everywhere in between.

Chapter Text

That's the kind of heartbreak time could never mend

Baby, I get mystified by how

This city screams your name

And baby, I'm so terrified of if you ever walk away

I'd never walk Cornelia Street again

“Are you trying to recruit me?”

“I’m trying to make a bet.”

Buck sat up. “Go on.”

Eddie grinned.

“Next show. You learn the choreography. Full routine. If you nail it, I buy you that ridiculous espresso machine you keep sending me links to.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You wear a Diaz tour shirt to every team practice for a month. Front and center. Glitter print.”

Buck stared at him.

“You’re evil.”

“I’m persuasive.”

Buck extended his hand.

“Deal.”

They shook on it, popcorn flying as Buck knocked over the bowl in dramatic protest.

“You’re going to regret this,” Buck said.

“I already don’t,” Eddie replied.

And that’s how they ended up here: with Buck stood in black cargo pants and a sleeveless tour tee, heart pounding like a drumline. The choreography was burned into his brain—days of rehearsals, bruised knees, and Ravi yelling counts over the music. But none of that prepared him for the moment the curtain rose.

The arena was a sea of light—phones raised, voices lifted, the kind of energy that made the air feel electric. Eddie stood center stage, bathed in gold light, his voice smooth and commanding. The dancers moved like a tide around him, and then—on cue—Buck stepped into the spotlight.

The crowd erupted.

“That’s Buckley!” someone shouted. 

“He’s really doing it!” another voice echoed.

“What the actual fuck?”

And screams. Lots of screams.

Buck didn’t flinch. He hit his marks, spun with the rhythm, moved like he belonged. The team was in the front row—Jordan, Ravi, Chimney—cheering like it was fourth-and-goal. Maddie filmed with tears in her eyes, laughing every time Buck winked at the camera.

The final beat of the song echoed through the arena like a heartbeat suspended in time. Buck, breathless and grinning, gave a playful bow to the roaring crowd before slipping offstage with the dancers. His steps were light, adrenaline still humming in his veins, the kind of high that only comes from doing something ridiculous and unforgettable.

The stage dimmed.

A single spotlight fell on Eddie.

He stood alone now, guitar slung across his shoulder, fingers resting gently on the strings. The crowd quieted—not out of obligation, but instinct. They knew something was coming. Something different.

Eddie strummed once. A soft, warm chord that settled over the arena like dusk.

“So,” he said, voice low but clear, “did you like the surprise?”

A ripple of cheers answered him, laughter and applause folding into the silence.

He smiled, eyes scanning the crowd, but his gaze lingered on the wings—where Buck stood, watching.

“He said he couldn’t dance,” Eddie continued, adjusting the mic. “That he’d trip over his own feet. Said he’d rather face a linebacker without equipment than a choreographer.”

The crowd laughed again.

He looked out over the crowd, eyes scanning the sea of faces, and smiled.

“Did you guys think he nailed it?” he said, voice low and warm. "'Cause I think he did."

The crowd erupted—cheers, whistles, someone yelling “He crushed it!”. Eddie let the chord ring out, the sound hanging in the air like a held breath. The crowd was still buzzing, laughter and cheers echoing from every corner of the stadium. He looked out over the sea of faces, then tilted his head with a half-smile.

“Hm,” he said, voice low and teasing, “so that’s a yes, huh?”

The audience answered with a roar—clapping, whistling, someone yelling “Hell yes!” from the front row.

Eddie chuckled, strumming again, softer this time.

“Didn’t think he’d actually do it, in my defense. But he never does anything halfway.”

He glanced toward the wings, where Buck stood just out of sight, sweat-slick and glowing, watching with that crooked grin that always gave him away.

“Guess I owe him a song now.”

The crowd laughed again, and Eddie leaned into the mic, voice warm and sincere.

“Shall we thank him for doing this?”

The audience answered in waves, cheers and applause.

Eddie chuckled, adjusting the mic.

“Thank you, Evan. For the laugh. For the heart. For being the kind of person who turns a bet into a memory.”

Then he began the next song, fingers dancing over the strings, the spotlight soft on his face. And somewhere backstage, Buck exhaled, heart still racing, knowing he’d just become part of something unforgettable.

*

Eddie stepped in from the hallway, phone in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. He looked at Buck for a long moment, then tossed the bottle his way.

“You good?” he asked.

Buck caught it, cracked it open, and took a long sip.

“I think I’m still vibrating.”

Eddie chuckled, setting the guitar down gently.

“You were supposed to blend in with the dancers. Not steal the spotlight.”

“I blended. I just blended loudly.”

Eddie leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him.

“You carried me across the stage like it was nothing.”

“You weigh less than a tackling dummy,” Buck said. 

They both laughed, the kind of laugh that comes from relief and adrenaline and the knowledge that they’d pulled off something wild.

Eddie’s voice softened.

“They loved it. The crowd. The surprise. You.”

Buck looked up, eyes tired but bright.

“You think so?”

Eddie nodded.

“I asked them. They screamed. So yeah... I think that’s a yes. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah. I am.”

The SUV rolled through the city, headlights slicing through the quiet as the streets emptied under the weight of midnight. The show was over. The crowd had roared, the confetti had flown, and Buck had danced—really danced—on stage with Eddie’s crew, lifting him like it was second nature.

Now, the adrenaline was settling into something softer.

Buck sat in the passenger seat, hoodie pulled over his damp hair, one leg tucked up on the seat like he was trying to fold himself into calm. Eddie drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console, fingers tapping out the rhythm of the last song.

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was full—of laughter still echoing, of cheers still ringing, of something unspoken that didn’t need to be said.

The city blurred past—neon signs, late-night diners, a couple walking a dog under a flickering streetlamp. The kind of quiet that only comes after something big.

“You think they’ll remember it?” Buck asked.

Eddie glanced at him.

“They’ll talk about it for years.”

Buck leaned his head against the window, watching the world drift by.

“I didn’t even trip.”

“You rehearsed like hell.”

“I did it for the espresso machine.”

Eddie laughed, turning into the hotel driveway.

“You did it for me.”

Buck looked at him, and for a moment, the car felt smaller. Closer.

“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

The valet opened the door, and the night air rushed in—cool, quiet, full of possibility. They stepped out, shoulders brushing, the weight of the night still clinging to their clothes.

The hotel suite was quiet, tucked high above the city with the hum of distant traffic below and the glow of stage lights still lingering in their bones. The adrenaline had faded, replaced by something gentler. Something earned.

Eddie sat on the edge of the bathtub, steam curling around him like mist. His shoulders were tight, his voice hoarse, and his body still humming from the weight of the performance. Buck moved quietly around him, sleeves rolled up, testing the water with his hand, adding a splash of something herbal that smelled like eucalyptus and calm.

“You’re gonna feel human again in about five minutes,” Buck said, voice low and easy.

Eddie smiled, tired but grateful.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

“You carried the show,” Buck replied. “I just carried you.”

Eddie eased into the bath, the water wrapping around him like warmth itself. He exhaled, long and slow, eyes closing as the tension began to melt.

Buck sat nearby, legs crossed, talking softly—about the crowd, the chaos, the moment they locked eyes mid-performance and knew they’d pulled it off. Eddie didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. Buck’s voice was enough.

When the water cooled and the steam thinned, Buck helped him out, wrapped him in a towel, and guided him to bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The sheets were cool, the room dim. They lay side by side, the kind of closeness that didn’t ask for anything but presence. Eddie’s head rested against Buck’s shoulder, and Buck’s arm curled protectively around him.

“You good?” Buck whispered.

“Better now,” Eddie murmured.

Outside, the city kept moving. But inside, the world had stilled. And in that quiet, soft and protected, they drifted into sleep

*

Golden light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting long, warm stripes across the hotel room floor. The city outside was just beginning to stir—horns in the distance, footsteps on pavement, the hum of life returning.

Inside, everything was still.

Buck blinked awake first, eyes adjusting to the soft glow. Eddie was curled beside him, one arm draped across Buck’s chest, breath steady, face relaxed in a way Buck rarely saw. The kind of peace that only came after something big. Something shared.

Buck didn’t move. Not yet. He just lay there, listening to the quiet rhythm of Eddie’s breathing, the faint rustle of sheets, the distant clink of dishes from room service down the hall.

Eventually, Eddie stirred.

His eyes opened slowly, blinking against the light, and he looked up at Buck with a sleepy smile.

“Morning,” he murmured.

“Hey,” Buck said, voice low. “You slept like a rock.”

“I needed it,” Eddie replied, stretching slightly but not moving away. “Last night was... a lot.”

They lay there for a while, not rushing. Just existing. The kind of morning that didn’t need coffee yet, didn’t need plans. Just quiet, and warmth, and the comfort of knowing they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

Eventually, Buck reached over and brushed a hand through Eddie’s hair.

“You good?”

Eddie nodded, eyes half-closed.

“I’m good. I’m really good.”

*

The flight to LA had been quiet.

Not silent—just easy. Buck and Eddie sat side by side, headphones in, sharing glances and half-smiles, the kind of comfort that comes after a whirlwind. The tour was behind them. The chaos, the dancing, the crowds. Now it was just home.

They landed late afternoon, the California sun casting long golden streaks across the tarmac. Buck’s Jeep was waiting in long-term parking, and the drive back to his place was filled with soft music and the occasional laugh.

“You think Ravi’s already edited a highlight reel?” Eddie asked.

“He probably dropped it before we even boarded,” Buck replied.

They pulled into Buck’s street, the familiar row of trees swaying in the breeze, the quiet hum of sprinklers ticking in the distance. Buck’s building stood like it always had—ordinary, safe, his little corner of the world.

But something was off.

Two figures stood at the front door. Older. Stiff. Out of place.

Buck slowed the car.

Eddie leaned forward, squinting.

“You know them?”

Buck didn’t answer right away. His grip tightened on the steering wheel. His jaw set.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I do.”

They parked. Buck got out first, Eddie close behind, instinctively scanning the scene like he was walking into a call.

The woman turned first—sharp eyes, tight smile. The man followed, posture rigid, expression unreadable.

“Evan,” she said. “We thought we’d surprise you.”

Buck didn’t move.

“You did.”

Eddie stayed quiet, close but not crowding, his presence steady.

“We were in town,” the man said. “Figured it was time.”

“Time for what?” Buck asked, voice flat.

“To talk,” the woman said. “To reconnect.”

“So you weren’t here because Maddie’s at work and you can’t spoil her babies?”

Margaret blinked, caught off guard.

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” Buck said, “what’s not fair is showing up after years of silence and expecting a warm welcome.”

Philip stepped forward, voice low.

“We’re still your parents.”

“You’re strangers,” Buck snapped. “You didn’t come to my games. You didn’t call after Maddie left. You didn’t show up when I nearly died.”

Eddie didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He was there—solid, unwavering, the quiet anchor in Buck’s storm.

Margaret’s voice softened, but it was the kind of softness that felt rehearsed.

“We just want a chance.”

Buck looked at her, then at Philip, then back at Eddie.

“You had chances. You let them rot.”

He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and held it open for Eddie. Eddie walked in without hesitation.

Buck turned back one last time.

“You want to talk? You can call. You can ask. You can show up when it’s not convenient. That’s what family does.”

Then he closed the door.

Inside, the air was cooler. Still. Buck leaned against the wall, breathing slow.

Eddie stepped closer, hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

“You okay?”

Buck nodded, eyes tired.

“I will be. Just... not today.”

Buck’s voice broke the silence, low and uneven.

“Remember when you asked me to give you space? When things got hard with Tommy?”

Eddie nodded, stepping closer.

“Yeah. I do.”

Buck looked up, eyes tired but clear. He looked like had run a marathon. 

“Please... don’t give me space right now.”

Eddie didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in two quiet steps and wrapped his arms around Buck—not tight, not overwhelming, just enough. Enough to say I’m here. Enough to say you’re not alone.

Buck exhaled, the kind of breath that comes from holding too much for too long. His forehead rested against Eddie’s shoulder, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

And in that quiet, with the past left outside and Eddie beside him, Buck finally felt the difference between being tolerated and being truly understood.

Chapter Text

Never take advice from someone who’s falling apart

Buck was pacing the living room, arms crossed, jaw tight. Maddie stood in the doorway, arms planted on her hips, her expression somewhere between pleading and exasperated.

“It’s just dinner,” she said.

“It’s them,” Buck snapped. “It’s not just dinner when it’s Philip and Margaret.”

“I know,” Maddie said. “Believe me, I know. But they showed up. And if you don’t come, I’m going to lose my mind so spectacularly I’ll make national news.”

Buck stopped pacing.

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. I’m your sister,” Maddie said. “And I’m asking you to do this. Not for them. For me. So I don’t have to sit through two hours of passive-aggressive salad commentary alone.”

Buck sighed, rubbing his face.

“If this goes sideways—”

“Then we leave,” Maddie said. “Together.”

“Fine. One dinner. But if Dad starts talking about ‘discipline,’ I’m flipping the table.”

“Deal,” Maddie said, grabbing her purse. 

*

The restaurant was quiet, upscale but not flashy—white tablecloths, soft lighting, the kind of place chosen to make things look better than they felt.

Buck walked in behind Maddie, his shoulders squared, jaw tight. He scanned the room like a firefighter entering a scene—calculating exits, reading faces, bracing for impact.

Philip and Margaret were already seated. Margaret stood when she saw them, arms outstretched like this was a reunion, not a reckoning.

Margaret unfolded her napkin with the precision of someone who’d practiced grace like a performance.

“We saw the video,” she said. “The dancing. Very... spirited.”

Buck didn’t look up.

“Thanks.”

Philip cleared his throat.

“I didn’t realize choreography was part of your skill set.”

“Neither did I,” Buck said. “Turns out I’m full of surprises.”

Margaret smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Well, it’s nice to see you doing something... expressive. You were always so physical as a child. Climbing everything. Falling off everything.”

“Yeah,” Buck said. “I remember. 

“You were just... a lot,” she replied.

Maddie shifted in her seat.

“He was a kid.”

Philip took a sip of wine.

“We always said he had energy. Just needed direction.”

Buck’s jaw tightened.

“Funny. I found direction when I stopped listening to you.”

Margaret leaned in slightly.

Maddie jumped in, voice light.

“So, the risotto here is amazing. Maybe we can—”

Margaret cut in.

“Maddie, how are the children? We saw a photo of Jee-Yun on your social media. She’s getting so big.”

“She is,” Maddie said, grateful for the shift. “She’s talking nonstop.”

Philip smiled faintly.

“I hope she turns out like you, the responsible one.”

Buck blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“Well,” Philip said, “Maddie’s always had a plan. A career. A family. You’ve taken a more... unconventional path.”

Buck leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

“You mean I didn’t follow the script you wrote for me.”

Margaret’s voice softened, but it was the kind of softness that felt like a blade wrapped in silk.

“We just wanted you to be stable. Predictable. Safe.”

“You wanted me to be quiet,” Buck said. “To be manageable.”

Philip set his fork down.

“We’re not here to argue.”

“Then why are you here?” Buck asked, voice rising. “To remind me I was a disappointment? To pretend you didn’t miss half my life?”

Maddie reached for his hand under the table.

“You know, Evan, I was telling Philip the other day... maybe we were too hard on you. But you were always so sensitive. Everything felt like a crisis.”

Buck froze.

Maddie’s eyes widened.

Philip nodded, as if that settled it.

“You did have a tendency to overreact. Even as a boy. Always needing attention.”

Buck set his fork down slowly. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the table like glass.

“You think I wanted attention?”

Margaret blinked.

“Well—”

“I wanted you. I wanted someone to notice when I was hurting. When I was scared. When I didn’t know how to ask for help.”

Philip shifted uncomfortably.

“We did our best.”

“No,” Buck said, standing now, voice rising. “You did what was easiest. You ignored me. You praised Maddie for being quiet and called me dramatic for what? Having feelings?”

Margaret’s tone sharpened.

“We didn’t ignore you. You were just... exhausting.”

Buck laughed, but it wasn’t funny.

“You know what’s exhausting? Growing up thinking love is conditional. That I had to earn it by being less. Quieter. Easier. Or worst. Having to hurt my self to get it.”

Maddie reached for his arm, but Buck was already moving—grabbing his jacket, eyes burning.

“You didn’t come here to reconnect. You came to rewrite the history and to make yourselves feel better.”

Philip stood too, defensive.

“We’re your family.”

Buck turned, eyes locked on him.

“You’re my origin. Not my family.”

He looked at Maddie, softer now.

“I’m sorry.”

She nodded, eyes glassy.

“Go.”

Buck walked out, the restaurant’s quiet hum swallowing the sound of his footsteps. Outside, the air was cool, the city alive. He didn’t know where he was going—just that he couldn’t stay.

*

Buck didn’t remember how he got home. The drive was a blur—streetlights streaking past like ghosts, the city pulsing around him while he sat behind the wheel, numb and detached. His hands had gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles ached, but he hadn’t noticed. Not until he was standing in his apartment, staring at the walls like they might offer answers. They didn’t. The door slammed behind him like a gunshot.

He moved like a man possessed. Jacket flung to the floor. Keys tossed somewhere he wouldn’t find them later. The apartment was dark, but he didn’t reach for the lights. He didn’t want clarity. He wanted the kind of darkness that matched the weight in his chest.

The whiskey bottle was still in the cabinet above the fridge. He hadn’t touched it in months—not since Eddie came into his life. But Eddie wasn’t here now. Buck didn’t want him here. Not like this. Not when he felt like a walking wound.

He drank straight from the bottle. No glass. No pacing. Just long, burning gulps that scraped down his throat and settled like fire in his stomach. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted something to feel real.

The words from dinner echoed in his head, each one sharper than the last.

“You were exhausting.” 

“Always needing attention.”

“We did our best.” 

“Maddie’s the responsible one.”

He laughed, but it was a broken sound—more breath than humor. He staggered into the living room, bottle still in hand, and stared at the photos on the wall. Him and Maddie. Him and Eddie. The team, smiling. Whole. 

He hurled the bottle at the wall.

It exploded in a shower of glass and amber, the sound deafening in the silence. Shards scattered across the floor, glinting like stars in the dim light. Buck stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched, staring at the mess like it had betrayed him.

Then he dropped to his knees.

The floor was cold. Hard. Unforgiving. He didn’t care. He sat there, legs sprawled, back against the wall, surrounded by broken glass and the smell of whiskey. His breathing was ragged, shallow. His eyes burned, but he didn’t cry. Not yet.

He thought about every time he’d tried to earn their love. Every touchdown. Every trophy. Every interview where he smiled just right, said the right things, made himself palatable. He thought about the injuries—broken ribs, torn ligaments, concussions that left him dizzy for days. And not once had Philip or Margaret called. Not once had they asked if he was okay.

He thought about Eddie. How he would sat with him in silence, no judgment, just presence. And Buck was pushing him away. He didn't asked for space, but he was slipping through his fingers anyway. Because he didn’t know how to be held without feeling like... feeling like... He couldn't even finish that thought.

The tears came slowly. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just quiet. Relentless. He pressed his forehead to the floor, fists curled against the hardwood, and let himself unravel.

“Why wasn’t I enough?” he whispered. “Why did I have to earn it?”

The silence didn’t answer. It never did.

He stayed there for hours. The city outside kept moving—cars passing, people laughing, life continuing. But Buck was still. A man undone. A son unclaimed. A heart too full of ache to keep pretending.

And in that darkness, surrounded by the wreckage of everything he’d tried to hold together, Buck finally stopped fighting.

He let it break.

The apartment didn’t move. Not a hum. Just the low buzz of the fridge and the distant sound of traffic bleeding through the windows. Buck sat on the floor, legs sprawled, back against the wall, head tilted toward the ceiling like he was waiting for it to collapse.

His knuckles were scraped. His shirt was damp with sweat and tears. But he didn’t move.

He didn’t speak.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was suffocating. But Buck didn’t fight it. He let it wrap around him, let it press against his ribs, let it settle into his bones like cold.

His phone buzzed once. Then again. He didn’t reach for it. He couldn’t. The thought of words, of explanations, of trying to make sense of what had just happened felt impossible. He didn’t want comfort. He didn’t want logic. He wanted stillness. He wanted the world to stop spinning long enough for him to breathe.

The hours passed slowly. The light outside faded from gold gray to absolute black. The city kept moving. Somewhere, someone was falling in love. Somewhere else, someone was having their first son. Here, Buck was falling apart.

He thought about the dinner. About Margaret’s smile that felt like a trap. About Philip’s tone, always measured, always cold. About the way they spoke like they were reading from a script written by someone who’d never met him.

He thought about being a kid—running through the house, scraped knees, wild energy, desperate for someone to look at him and say I see you. But they never did. They saw the noise. The mess. The inconvenience.

And now they wanted to rewrite it. To sit across from him and pretend it hadn’t happened. To call him dramatic. To call him exhausting.

He pressed his forehead to his knees, arms wrapped around himself like armor.

He didn’t cry again. He didn’t scream. He didn’t move.

The silence stretched into midnight. Then past it. The city dimmed. The stars blinked overhead. And Buck stayed exactly where he was.

The darkness outside his windows slowly gave way to a pale, indifferent light. The city stirred—garbage trucks groaned down the street, birds called out from wires, and somewhere a neighbor’s alarm buzzed into life. But inside Buck’s apartment, nothing moved.

He was still on the floor.

His body ached—knees stiff, neck sore, back pressed against the wall like he’d fused with it. But he didn’t shift. Not even to blink away the crusted tears on his cheeks.

His eyes were open, unfocused, staring at the ceiling like it might offer something. It didn’t.

The silence had changed. It wasn’t sharp anymore. It was dull. Heavy. Like a blanket soaked in grief. The kind that doesn’t scream—it just settles. And Buck let it.

His thoughts didn’t race. They didn’t spiral. They just repeated.

You were exhausting. Always needing attention. We did our best. Maddie’s the responsible one.

Each phrase landed like a stone in his chest. 

The light crept across the floor, inching toward him. It touched the glass. It touched his legs. It climbed his chest. But it didn’t warm him.

His phone buzzed again—a message from Maddie, maybe Eddie. He didn’t check. He didn’t reach. He didn’t care.

Because what was he supposed to say?

That he’d finally broken?

That the version of himself he’d built—strong, fast, dependable—had cracked under the weight of a dinner?

That the silence he’d learned to live with had finally swallowed him whole?

He closed his eyes, just for a moment. Not to sleep. Not to escape. Just to stop seeing.

And the morning kept going.

The world outside moved on.

But Buck didn’t.

*

Eddie woke early. He sat up in bed, rubbed his face, and reached for his phone. No messages from Buck. No calls. No updates. No sarcastic texts about how bad the risotto was. He checked again. Nothing.

Eddie stared at the screen, thumb hovering over Buck’s name. He’d given Buck space. After the dinner with Philip and Margaret, after the storm he knew was coming, he’d stepped back. Trusted Buck to handle it. But now the silence felt wrong.

He called once. It rang. No answer. He called again. Straight to voicemail. Eddie stood, pulled on a hoodie, and paced the living room. The city outside was waking up—sunlight creeping through the blinds, traffic humming—but Eddie’s world felt stalled.

He dialed Maddie.

She picked up on the second ring, voice groggy but alert.

“Eddie?”

“Hey,” he said. “Did Buck call you last night?”

There was a pause. Too long.

“No,” Maddie said. “I texted him after dinner. He didn’t respond.”

“I called. No answer.”

“He’s probably sleeping it off,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

Eddie didn’t respond right away. He walked to the window, stared out at the street below.

“You think he’s okay?”

Maddie sighed.

“I think he’s hurt. I think that dinner cracked something open.”

“I should’ve gone with him.”

“He didn’t want you there,” she said gently. “He wanted to face them alone.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “But now he’s alone.”

The silence between them was heavy.

“I’m going over,” Maddie said finally. “Meet me there.”

Eddie pulled up to Buck’s building just after sunrise. The streets were quiet, the sky still painted in soft pinks and grays. He parked fast, didn’t bother locking the door, and jogged up the steps two at a time.

Maddie was already there, standing outside Buck’s apartment, her face pale and drawn, eyes red from worry.

“He’s not answering,” she said as Eddie approached. “I’ve knocked. I’ve called. Nothing.”

Eddie stepped up to the door, knocked hard.

“Buck,” he called. “It’s me. Open up.”

Silence.

He knocked again, louder this time.

“Buck. Come on, man. I’m not leaving.”

Still nothing.

“I texted him all night. I thought maybe he was sleeping it off. But he’s in there. I know he’s in there.”

Eddie pressed his ear to the door. No movement. No footsteps. Just the faint hum of the fridge inside.

He tried the knob. Locked.

“Buck,” he said again, softer now. “Please.”

Nothing.

Maddie’s hands were shaking. She leaned against the wall, breathing hard.

“I didn’t want to do this,” she said. “But I’m calling Bobby.”

Eddie didn’t argue.

She dialed, waited, and when Bobby picked up, her voice cracked.

“It’s Buck. He’s not answering. He’s inside, but he won’t open the door. I think he’s... I think he’s not okay.”

There was silence on the other end. Then Bobby’s voice—calm, commanding.

“I’m on my way.”

Maddie hung up, leaned into Eddie’s side, and let herself breathe.

Inside, Buck hadn’t moved.

He was still on the floor. Still surrounded by glass. Still staring at nothing.

Chapter Text

They told me all of my cages were mental

So I got wasted like all my potential

And my words shoot to kill when I'm mad

I have a lot of regrets about that

The knock on the door was firm. Not loud. Not urgent. Just deliberate.

Inside, Buck didn’t move.

Outside, Bobby stood with Maddie and Eddie flanking him, both pale and restless. Maddie had been pacing for ten minutes. Eddie hadn’t stopped staring at the door.

Bobby looked at them, eyes calm but unreadable.

“I need to go in alone.”

Maddie blinked.

“What? No—he’s not answering. He’s not—”

“I know,” Bobby said gently. “But if he sees both of you, he’ll shut down. He’ll feel cornered. He’ll perform. I need him to be real.”

Eddie hesitated.

“You think he’ll let you in?”

Bobby nodded once.

“He will.”

Maddie looked like she wanted to argue, but Bobby’s tone wasn’t up for negotiation. It wasn’t cold—it was protective. It was the kind of voice that had pulled Buck out of fire before. Literally and otherwise.

“Go wait downstairs,” Bobby said. “Give me time.”

Eddie looked at Maddie. Maddie looked at the door. Then, reluctantly, they turned and walked away.

Bobby waited until their footsteps faded. Then he knocked again.

“Buck,” he said, voice low. “It’s me.”

No answer.

“I’m not here as your captain. I’m not here to fix you. I’m here because I love you. And I’m not leaving.”

Inside, Buck stirred. Barely. His eyes flicked toward the door. His body ached. His throat was dry. But Bobby’s voice cut through the fog like a lifeline.

“Let me in.”

A long pause.

Then the digital lock clicked.

The door opened just enough for Bobby to step inside.

What he saw stopped him cold.

Buck was on the floor, surrounded by shattered glass; eyes hollow, body unmoved. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Like he hadn’t breathed.

Bobby didn’t speak. 

He closed the door behind him, and sat down on the floor beside Buck.

Not across. Not above. Beside.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Then Bobby said, quietly:

“You don’t have to say anything. I’m here.”

Buck didn’t respond. But his shoulders dropped, just slightly. His jaw unclenched. His eyes closed.

He opened his eyes , unfocused. His body hadn’t shifted since Bobby walked in. 

Bobby didn’t lecture. He didn’t scold. He knew better. He’d seen this before—in others, in himself. The bottle wasn’t the problem. It was the symptom. The scream that didn’t make sound.

Buck took a slow sip, eyes still on the ceiling.

“They said I was exhausting,” he murmured. “That I needed attention.”

His voice was hoarse. Barely there.

“I gave everything to football. Every bone. Every breath. Every second. And they didn’t come. Not once.”

Bobby nodded, quiet.

“I know.”

Buck laughed, bitter and broken.

“They showed up for Maddie. For her kids. But me? I was just noise.”

He took another drink. The vodka burned less than the whiskey. Or maybe he was too far gone to feel it.

“I thought if I was good enough—ran fast enough, hit hard enough, smiled wide enough—they’d see me.”

He looked at Bobby now. Really looked.

“But they didn’t. They just wanted to feel better about themselves. That's what last night was about.”

Bobby’s voice was low.

“You don’t owe them anything.”

Buck’s grip tightened on the bottle.

“Then why does it still hurt?”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was sacred. Bobby didn’t fill it.

Buck’s hand trembled.

“I don’t know how to stop feeling like I’m not enough.”

Bobby reached out, slowly, and placed a hand on Buck’s shoulder.

“You are. You always were. Even when they couldn’t see it.”

Buck didn’t cry. Not this time. He just closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and let the bottle slip from his fingers. It rolled across the floor, bumping against Bobby’s shoe.

And for the first time in hours, Buck exhaled.

Not a sob. Not a scream.

Just breath.

Then Bobby moved closer.

He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around Buck—tight, full, grounding. Not the kind of hug that says I’m sorry. The kind that says I’m here. The kind that holds a man together when he’s falling apart. Buck didn’t react at first.

His body was stiff, breath shallow, eyes still distant. But then something shifted. A tremble. A quiet surrender. His arms came up slowly, hesitantly, and then gripped Bobby like he was the last solid thing in a world that wouldn’t stop spinning.

He just held on.

And Bobby held him back.

They stayed like that for a long time. No words. No movement. Just two men in the middle of a broken room, surrounded by shattered glass and dried whiskey and morning light. Bobby didn’t let go. He didn’t loosen his grip. Because he knew Buck had spent his whole life trying to earn love that should’ve been given freely. And now, finally, he was receiving it—not because he was strong, not because he was successful, but because he was simply Buck.

Buck’s breathing slowed. His grip softened. His head dropped against Bobby’s shoulder.

Eventually, Bobby shifted, gently pulling back.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Buck didn’t respond, but he didn’t resist either. Bobby stood, then reached down and offered his hand. Buck stared at it for a long moment before taking it. His grip was weak, his legs unsteady, but Bobby didn’t let go. He guided him through the apartment, past the broken bottle, past the silence, into the bathroom.

The shower tiles were cold. The light overhead flickered slightly. Buck sat on the closed toilet lid while Bobby turned the knobs, adjusting the temperature until steam began to rise. He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask questions. He just waited.

Buck peeled off his shirt slowly, movements sluggish and deliberate. His skin was clammy, streaked with dried sweat and the faint smell of alcohol. Bobby helped him with the rest—quietly, respectfully, like a father helping a son who’d forgotten how to care for himself.

When Buck stepped into the shower, he stood there for a moment, letting the water hit his back. He didn’t move. Didn’t scrub. Just stood. Bobby sat outside the curtain, close enough to hear him, far enough to give space.

Minutes passed.

Then Buck spoke.

“It was the same. The same tone. The same looks. The same way they talk about Maddie like she’s the only one who mattered.”

He paused. The water kept running.

Bobby leaned forward slightly. He repeated.

“You don’t have to prove anything to them.”

Buck laughed, bitter and broken.

“I know. But I still wanted to.”

The water splashed against the tile. Buck’s voice cracked.

“I wanted them to say they were proud. Just once. I wanted them to look at me and not see a mistake.”

Bobby’s voice was steady.

“You’re not a mistake, Buck. You’re one of the strongest men I’ve ever known. Not because of what you do. Because of who you are. And... I am very, very, proud of you.”

Buck didn’t respond right away. He let the water wash over him, let it soak into his skin, let it carry away the remnants of the night.

“I feel empty,” he said finally. 

“Let yourself rest. Let yourself be loved.”

Buck turned off the water slowly, steam rising around him like a veil. He stepped out, shivering slightly, and Bobby handed him a towel. Their eyes met—red-rimmed, tired, but clearer now.

“I don’t know how to start over,” Buck whispered.

“You don’t have to,” Bobby said. “You just have to start.”

*

Bobby moved through the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands steady.

Buck watched from the couch, legs curled beneath him, eyes following Bobby’s every move like he couldn’t quite believe he was still there.

The smell of eggs and toast filled the air. Bobby cracked them with practiced ease, butter sizzling in the pan, the rhythm of cooking like a heartbeat in the quiet. He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask Buck to. He just cooked—because sometimes care looks like breakfast at 8 a.m. in a broken apartment.

When the plate was set in front of him, Buck stared at it for a long moment. Then he picked up the fork and ate. Slowly. Quietly. Like each bite was a step back toward himself.

Bobby sat across from him, sipping coffee, watching without judgment.

After a few minutes, Buck set the fork down and looked up.

“You didn’t have to stay.”

Bobby’s voice was calm.

“I know.”

Buck’s eyes were glassy, but not from tears. From something deeper. Something older.

“You didn’t have to cook. Or sit on the floor. Or take the bottle.”

“I know,” Bobby said again.

Buck swallowed hard.

“But you did.”

The silence stretched. Bobby didn’t fill it. He let Buck speak when he was ready.

“I used to imagine what it’d be like,” Buck said, voice low. “To have a dad who showed up. Who didn’t make me feel like I was too much. Or not enough.”

He looked down at the plate, then back at Bobby.

“And I think… I think I always wished it was someone you.”

Bobby’s breath caught, but he didn’t flinch. He stood, walked around the table, and pulled Buck into a hug—tight, full, grounding. The second one that morning. But this one was different. This one was a response.

Buck clung to him, arms wrapped around Bobby like he was holding onto something he’d never had but always needed.

“I wish you were my father,” Buck whispered.

Bobby didn’t say I’m not. He didn’t say I’m sorry. He just held him.

“I’m here,” he said. 

And in that moment, Buck didn’t feel like a disappointment. Or a burden. Or a mistake.

He felt like a son.

*

The knock came just as Bobby was rinsing the last dish, the sound soft but deliberate. Buck, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, didn’t flinch. He’d heard it too, but his eyes stayed fixed on the wall, unfocused. Bobby dried his hands slowly, then walked to the door and opened it.

Eddie stood there, shoulders tense, eyes scanning Bobby’s face for signs. He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to. Bobby stepped aside, and Eddie walked in, quiet as a shadow.

The apartment smelled faintly of eggs and steam. The broken glass had been swept into a corner, the bottle tucked out of sight. But the air still felt heavy—like grief had settled into the walls.

Eddie’s eyes landed on Buck, curled into himself on the couch, damp hair clinging to his forehead, blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. He looked smaller somehow. Not weak. Just worn.

Eddie sat down beside him, close but not crowding. He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask. He just let the silence settle between them like old friends.

After a long stretch, Buck turned his head slightly, voice rough.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Eddie didn’t hesitate.

“Then you don’t know me at all.”

Buck’s throat tightened. He looked down, fingers curling into the blanket.

“I scared Maddie.”

“You scared me too,” Eddie said. “But I’m still here. Not going anywhere.”

Buck nodded, eyes burning.

“I drank. I broke a bottle. I’m broken myself. You should get yourself someon..."

Eddie leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His expression hard.

“Don't you dare fisinish that sentence, Evan. You’re not broken. You collapsed. It’s a shit. It happens. But you’re still here.”

He wrapped his arms around Buck, and pulled him into a hug.

Buck didn’t resist. He leaned in, head resting against Eddie’s chest, breath shallow but steady. His hands gripped Eddie’s hoodie like he was afraid to let go.

And then Eddie bent his head and pressed a kiss to Buck’s hair.

Soft. Wordless. Fierce.

Buck’s breath caught. His eyes closed. His grip tightened.

No one spoke.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Chapter Text

I wake in the night, I pace like a ghost

The room is on fire, invisible smoke

And all of my heroes died all alone

Help me hold on to you

“They only looked at me when I was bleeding.”

Eddie froze.

“When I got hurt on the field, when I was in the ER, when I had stitches or bruises or a cast—that’s when they showed up. That’s when they asked questions. That’s when they remembered I existed.”

His voice was low, almost monotone, like he was reciting facts from a textbook. But his eyes were burning.

“I used to fake injuries. Just little ones. Sprained wrist. Twisted ankle. I’d limp into the kitchen and wait for them to notice. Sometimes they did. Sometimes they didn’t.”

Eddie walked over slowly, sat down across from him, but didn’t interrupt.

“I was loud because silence made me disappear. I was reckless because caution made me invisible. I was exhausting because being easy meant being ignored.”

Buck’s hands were shaking now.

“And Maddie… she was the responsible one. The quiet one. The one they leaned on. And I loved her for it. I still do. But I hated how they looked at her. Like she was the only thing worth saving.”

He looked up, eyes glassy.

“I had a brother.”

Eddie’s breath caught.

“They erased him. After he died. No photos. No stories. No name. Just gone. Like he never existed. Like grief was something you could delete.”

Buck’s voice cracked.

“And I think… I think they looked at me and saw him. Not the good parts. Just the risk. Just the reminder. Just the possibility of more pain. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be enough for people who decided I wasn’t before I even had a chance.”

Eddie reached out, slowly, placed a hand on Buck’s shoulder. Buck didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. He just sat there, trembling, unraveling.

“I don’t know who I am without the noise,” Buck whispered. “Without the bruises.”

Eddie’s voice was quiet.

“You’re someone worth loving, Evan.”

Buck didn’t respond. He couldn’t. But his shoulders dropped, just slightly. His breath slowed. 

Eddie hadn’t moved. He sat beside Buck, close but careful, his hand still resting lightly on Buck’s shoulder. He could feel the tremble beneath his palm—the way Buck’s body was trying to hold itself together, even now, even after everything.

“I don’t know how to come back from this,” he whispered. “I don’t know who I am without the pain.”

Eddie didn’t answer. He leaned in slowly, gently, and pressed a kiss to Buck’s hair.

It was soft. Barely there. But it landed like thunder.

Buck froze.

Eddie moved closer, wrapped both arms around Buck, pulled him in tight. Buck didn’t resist. He collapsed into the hug, face buried in Eddie’s chest, sobs muffled against fabric. His fingers clutched Eddie’s hoodie, desperate, anchoring.

Eddie held him through it.

No words. No shushing. Just presence.

He let Buck cry until the sobs turned to gasps, until the gasps turned to silence, until Buck was just breathing—slow, shaky, but breathing.

Eddie pressed his forehead to Buck’s temple, voice low.

“You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Buck didn’t speak. He couldn’t. But his arms stayed wrapped around Eddie, and that was enough.

The apartment was dim now, the curtains drawn halfway, letting in just enough light to paint the room in soft gray. Buck was asleep on the couch, curled into himself, blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. His breathing was slow, steady, but Eddie didn’t trust it. Not yet.

He watched Buck’s chest rise and fall, eyes tracing every movement like they might suddenly stop. It wasn’t rational. Buck was alive. He was here. But Eddie had seen too many people disappear in silence. Too many collapses that looked like rest.

Eddie leaned back slightly, eyes never leaving Buck.

He looked younger like this. In a heartbreaking way. Like the years of trying to be enough had finally peeled away, leaving the boy underneath. The boy who’d been loud because silence made him invisible. The boy who’d chased pain because it was the only language his parents understood.

Eddie’s jaw clenched. He rubbed his face, fingers dragging across stubble, eyes burning. He thought about the way Buck had sobbed into his chest like he’d been holding it in for years. About the way he’d said I don’t know who I am without the pain.

And Eddie didn’t have an answer.

He just knew he didn’t want Buck to figure it out alone.

Buck shifted slightly in his sleep, brow furrowing, breath catching for a moment before settling again. Eddie leaned forward instinctively, ready to speak, to soothe, to do something—but Buck didn’t wake.

Eddie sat back.

He thought about Christopher. About the way he’d learned to read his son’s silences. About the way love had taught him to listen without needing words. And he realized that Buck needed that too. Not solutions. Not speeches. Just someone who stays.

He reached out, gently adjusted the blanket over Buck’s shoulder, fingers brushing against his skin. Buck didn’t stir.

Eddie exhaled.

I’m here, he thought. Even when you sleep. Even when you fall apart. I’m here.

And in the quiet of the apartment, with Buck finally resting and Eddie keeping watch, the healing began—not loudly, not all at once, but in the stillness between heartbeats.

The days passed gently, like pages turning in a book Buck hadn’t meant to read. There was no dramatic shift, no sudden burst of clarity. Just mornings that came a little easier, nights that didn’t feel quite as long, and the quiet presence of Eddie, always nearby.

Buck didn’t go back to work right away. He didn’t rush to fix things. He stayed home, mostly in sweats, mostly barefoot, moving through the apartment like someone relearning the shape of his own life. The broken glass had been swept. The bottles were gone. The silence remained, but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It was soft. It gave him space.

Eddie came every morning.

Sometimes with coffee. Sometimes with breakfast. Sometimes with nothing but himself.

He didn’t push. He didn’t ask Buck to talk. He just showed up—sat on the couch, read the paper, made small jokes that didn’t demand laughter. And slowly, Buck began to respond. A nod. A smile. A quiet thanks over scrambled eggs.

They started walking in the evenings. Just around the block. Buck’s steps were slow at first, his posture guarded. But Eddie matched his pace, never rushing, never leading. They walked in silence, side by side, the city humming around them like background music.

One night, Buck stopped at the corner and looked up at the sky.

“I used to think healing would feel like flying,” he said. “But it’s more like walking barefoot on gravel.”

Eddie nodded.

They didn’t talk about the breakdown often. It hung between them, acknowledged but not dissected. Eddie knew Buck would speak when he was ready. And Buck knew Eddie would listen when he did.

Some days were harder than others. Buck would wake up with a weight in his chest, sit on the edge of the bed for an hour before moving. Eddie would find him there, say nothing, just sit beside him until the air felt breathable again.

Other days, Buck cooked. Cleaned. Played music. He laughed once—really laughed—at something Eddie said, and they both froze for a moment, surprised by the sound.

Maddie came by when she could. She brought food, hugged him tight, cried a little when she thought he wasn’t looking. Buck didn’t stop her. He let her feel what she needed to feel. And when she left, Eddie stayed.

The apartment changed too. Slowly. The curtains were opened. The windows cleaned. A plant appeared on the windowsill—Eddie’s idea. Buck watered it every morning, even when he didn’t feel like moving.

And one afternoon, Buck sat at the table with a notebook and wrote a single sentence:

I’m still here.

He stared at it for a long time. Then he closed the notebook and made lunch.

Eddie didn’t ask what he’d written.

He didn’t need to.

*

Bobby made the call by the end of that first week that Buck cracked.

No practices. No games. No press. No locker room. Just space.

Buck didn’t fight it.

At first, he tried to argue—said he could push through, said he’d be fine by Sunday. But Bobby had looked him in the eye and said, You’re not just a player. You’re a person. And right now, that person needs time.

So Buck stepped away.

The team moved on without him. The season pressed forward. Headlines shifted. But Buck stayed home. 

Almost two months passed.

Then one morning, Buck showed up at the training facility.

Not in cleats. Just jeans and a hoodie. He stood at the edge of the field, watching the team run drills. Bobby saw him from the sideline and walked over.

Buck didn’t speak right away. He just looked out at the field, then back at Bobby.

“I’m ready,” he said.

Bobby studied him. Not his stance. Not his tone. His eyes.

And what he saw wasn’t desperation. It wasn’t bravado.

It was clarity.

“You sure?” Bobby asked.

Buck nodded.

“I’m not perfect. I’m not fixed. But I’m me again.”

Bobby placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Then it’s time.”

And just like that, Buck returned.

Chapter Text

Will you take a moment?

Promise me this: that you'll stand by me forever

But if, God forbid, fate should step in

And force us into a goodbye

If you have children someday

When they point to the pictures

Please, tell 'em my name

Tell 'em how the crowds went wild

Tell 'em how I hope they shine

Long live the walls we crashed through

I had the time of my life with you

The crowd inside the Wiltern Theatre was electric—fans packed shoulder to shoulder, phones raised, voices buzzing with anticipation. The final show of Eddie’s tour. Los Angeles. Home turf. The end of a journey that had taken him across the country, through sleepless nights and sold-out venues, through verses that bled truth and choruses that healed.

Backstage, Eddie stood in silence.

His setlist was memorized. His voice was warm. But his thoughts were elsewhere.

Buck texted earlier: I’m coming.

Eddie hadn’t expected it. Buck hadn’t made a public appearance in almost two months—not since the breakdown, not since the bottle. But tonight, he was in the crowd. Somewhere in the dark. Watching.

Eddie stepped onto the stage.

The roar was deafening. Lights flared. The band kicked in. But Eddie didn’t rush. He stood at the mic, eyes scanning the crowd, searching for one face.

And then he saw him.

Near the back. Hoodie pulled low, arms crossed, eyes locked on Eddie. Black leather jacket and jeans. Eddie smiled.

The music began.

The set was raw. Stripped down. Eddie’s voice carried through the theatre like a confession—low, aching, beautiful. He sang about loss. About silence. About the kind of love that doesn’t fix you, but stays anyway.

Buck didn’t move and his eyes never left Eddie.

Halfway through the show, Eddie paused. The crowd quieted. He looked out again, found Buck’s gaze, and held it.

He took a breath.

“Los Angeles,” he said, voice steady but thick with emotion. “You’ve been with me since the beginning. You’ve seen me play in bars with sticky floors and busted speakers. You’ve watched me grow, fall, get back up. And tonight… this is the end of the tour. But it’s not the end of our story.”

The crowd cheered, but Eddie raised a hand gently, asking for quiet.

“This tour wasn’t just about music. It was about truth. About showing up when it’s hard. About singing through moments. And I want to talk about someone who reminded me what that means.”

He paused, eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on Buck—standing near the back, hoodie pulled low, eyes locked on Eddie.

“A while ago, someone I love deeply disappeared into the dark. He was hurting. And I didn’t know how to help. I didn’t know what to say. So I stayed. I showed up and I waited. The same way y’all teach me to do.”

Eddie’s voice cracked slightly.

The crowd murmured. Buck’s breath caught.

“And tonight, he’s here. Not because he’s fixed. Not because he’s perfect. But because he chose to come back. And that takes more courage than any song I’ve ever sung. You don’t need to be perfect to be loved,” Eddie said. “You just need to be honest.”

The crowd was silent now. Listening. Feeling.

“I’ve sung about heartbreak. About fire. About joy. But tonight, I want to sing about grace. About the kind of grace that waits in the hallway. So if you’re out there, and you’re hurting, and you think you have to be loud to be seen, or strong to be loved—hear me when I say this: you are enough. Just as you are. There are wonderful things waiting for you in the future, you just need to wait.”

He stepped back, hand over his heart.

“Before I walk off this stage tonight, I need to say something to the people who made this tour possible. You’ve been with me through every city, every song, every stumble. You’ve listened when I didn’t know how to speak.”

The crowd murmured, emotional, connected.

“There were nights I didn’t think I could do this. Nights when the weight of it all felt too heavy. But then I’d see your faces. Hear your voices. Feel your energy. And I’d remember why I started. 

He smiled, eyes glistening.

“So thank you. For every ticket. Every stream. Every message. Every moment. I’ll carry you with me into whatever comes next. And I hope you carry these songs with you too—on the good days, and especially on the hard ones.”

He stepped back, raised his guitar one last time.

“From the bottom of my heart—thank you for believing in me.”

*

After the show, Eddie found him backstage. The noise of the crowd still echoed through the walls, but in this hallway, it was quiet.

They didn’t speak right away.

Then Buck stepped forward.

“You were incredible.”

Eddie shrugged.

“You showed up.”

Buck’s voice cracked.

“I’m proud of you.”

Eddie pulled him into a hug—tight, grounding, real.

“I’m proud of us.”

Chapter Text

Eddie Diaz Announces New Album The Life of a Showboy, Inspired by Football Star Evan Buckley

It’s been exactly one year since Eddie Diaz closed the curtain on his blockbuster Eras Tour, and now the singer-songwriter is back. Louder, bolder, and more personal than ever.

In a surprise midnight post that sent fans into a frenzy, Diaz revealed the title of his upcoming album: The Life of a Showboy. The caption? 

“It’s about him. It's about me. It's about us.”

That’s right. Evan Buckley, Diaz’s longtime boyfriend and one of the most electrifying football players in the league, is the muse behind the new record. And according to insiders, this isn’t just a love letter. It’s a full-blown emotional excavation.

“This album is Eddie unfiltered,” said a source close to the production. “It’s about loving someone who lives in the spotlight, and what it means to stand beside them when the cameras turn off.”

Buckley, who’s currently mid-season and dominating headlines for his on-field performance, has kept a low profile off the field, especially since his quiet recovery last year. But fans have long speculated that Diaz’s music has been shaped by their relationship, and now it’s official.

The album is said to blend Diaz’s signature acoustic soul with cinematic strings, spoken-word confessions, and even a few tracks that nod to Buckley’s world—stadiums, silence, and the pressure of being seen.

No release date yet, but Diaz teased that the first single is “coming sooner than you think.”

Social media exploded within minutes of the announcement. One fan wrote:

“Eras was for us. This one’s for him. And we’re so not ready.”

Stay tuned for more updates.

Chapter Text

And I scream for whatever it's worth

I love you, ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?

The lights dropped to near darkness, and the stadium’s roar fractured into a thousand whispers. A single beam of white cut through smoky haze, illuminating Eddie Diaz as he stood alone at midfield.

As the opening chords of “The Fate of Hamlet" pulsed through rooftop speakers, LED panels behind him bloomed with molten gold. Eddie’s voice rose—raw, weathered, triumphant—filling the cavernous space with lyrics about fire and transformation. Flames licked the stage edges; dancers in metallic jackets moved like sparks around him.

From the sideline, Buck gripped his helmet so tightly his knuckles went white. He’d watched Eddie dominate arenas around the world, but tonight felt sacred. Every note cracked his chest open, revealing the truth that Buck had carried in silence.

Christopher, crammed into a VIP box, bounced with boyish abandon. He sang each line as if it were magic spelled just for him. When Eddie hit the final, soaring chorus, the stadium exploded in applause and chants, but Buck hardly noticed. He was too busy looking at his man.

The whistle sliced through applause. Game time. Under blinding floodlights, Buck jogged onto the turf with a purpose he’d never known. Each crash of pads and thud of cleats against grass felt synchronized with Eddie’s last note, echoing in Buck’s veins.

On the fifty-yard line, he wiped sweat and grass from his face, tasting the moment. First down: a swift juke past a linebacker. Second down: a perfect handoff into the teeth of the defense. Third down, final play: the quarterback’s eyes found Buck over the crowd of defenders.

Time slowed. Buck planted his foot, leaped, and snatched the spiraling ball with one gloved hand. Two yards. One yard. He barreled forward, arms pumping. Thirty-nine seconds left. He dove headfirst into the end zone as whistles and screams collided like thunder.

Touchdown. He lay there for a heartbeat, chest heaving, the world a blur of color and noise. Then he pressed himself up and pointed to the stands, searching for two faces.

The final whistle blew, and the roar faded into an expectant hush. A single spotlight glowed at midfield, casting the grass in a soft, golden light. Couples emerged: wives in elegant dresses, boyfriends in crisp suits, each hand in hand with a player. The crowd leaned forward, phones and foam fingers raised in respectful silence.

The jumbotron flickered to life with a gentle instrumental of “The Alchemy.” Buck stood frozen, helmet under his arm, heart pounding with anticipation. Then he saw them—Christopher, bursting through the VIP aisle, eyes wide and grin unstoppable; Eddie, stepping onto the turf in a tailored suit, pride shining in every line of his face. Christopher barreled into Buck’s arms, nearly knocking both of them off balance. Eddie reached them and slipped an arm around Buck’s shoulder, closing the circle.

Together they stood at the center of the field, fingers interlaced, raising their joined hands as the stadium lights blazed. A shower of confetti drifted around them, glittering like stars caught in a slow dance. The thunderous cheer washed over Buck, resonating in his bones. 

*

The house was glowing. Soft amber lights strung across exposed beams, casting a golden hue over the room. Vinyls from Eddie’s past albums lined one wall, but tonight, the centerpiece was a framed copy of The Life of a Showboy, mounted above the fireplace like a crown jewel.

The guest list was tight. No press. No influencers. Just family and friends.

Buck arrived with Jenkins, Ravi, Chimney and Maddie, all dressed somewhere between casual and celebratory. Jenkins brought a six-pack of craft beer, Ravi had a bottle of champagne he couldn’t pronounce.

Maddie hugged Buck at the door, her eyes misty. “He did it,” she whispered, looking toward Eddie, who was laughing with Hen and Karen near the stereo.

Hen wore a sleek blazer and a grin that said I told you so. Karen stood beside her, arm looped through Hen’s, sipping wine and nodding along to the low hum of the album playing in the background.

Christopher darted between guests, proudly showing off his custom “Showboy’s Son” hoodie. 

Eddie stood near the center of the room, radiant in a deep orange shirt, sleeves rolled, holding a glass of something golden. He tapped it gently with a fork.

“Okay,” he said, voice cutting through the chatter. “I know this album’s loud and glittery and a little ridiculous—like me. But tonight’s not about the show. It’s about the people who were with me when the lights went out. When there was no glamour. Every one of you are the life behind the showboy.”

Applause broke out, soft, sincere. 

Buck raised his glass. “To Eddie.”

The night unfolded in laughter and stories. Ravi tried to dance to one of the funkier tracks and nearly knocked over a lamp. Jenkins debated lyrics with Maddie like they were poetry. Chimney convinced Christopher to start a conga line that circled the kitchen twice.

And Buck? Buck was watching Eddie glow in the center of it all, surrounded by love and light. One thought lingered in his mind,  “This is the real show to me.”

The music had faded to a low hum. Empty glasses dotted the counters, and half-eaten slices of cake sat abandoned on plates. Laughter still in the corners, but the crowd had thinned. Hen and Karen were saying their goodbyes, Maddie hugged Buck one last time, and Jenkins promised to text the playlist Ravi had been obsessing over.

Christopher had fallen asleep on the couch, curled up with his hoodie pulled over his head, one hand still clutching a glow stick from Chimney’s impromptu dance battle.

Eddie stood by the window, looking out over the city lights, his reflection ghosted in the glass. Buck walked up beside him, two glasses of whiskey in hand.

“Thought you might want one,” Buck said, offering it.

Eddie took it with a soft smile. “Thanks.”

They clinked glasses quietly.

Buck glanced around the room. “You did it, Ed. The album’s beautiful.”

Eddie exhaled, slow and steady. “It’s the most fun and honest thing I’ve ever made.”

Buck nodded. “It feels like you.”

Eddie turned to him. “Nah. It doesn't. You know, I almost didn’t include track seven.”

Buck raised an eyebrow. “The one about the night in Paris?”

Eddie nodded. “It felt too personal. Too… us.”

Buck’s voice dropped. “That’s why it’s perfect.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the kind that doesn’t need filling.

Eddie looked at Buck, eyes soft. “You think people will understand it?”

Buck met his gaze. “They don’t have to. I do.”

Eddie’s throat tightened. He reached into his pocket and pulled out another Polaroid—this one from tonight. Buck and Christopher, dancing under string lights, mid-laugh, blurry but radiant.

“I took this before the party started,” Eddie said. “It’s going on the fridge.”

Buck smiled, heart full. “Right next to the touchdown photo.”

Eddie chuckled. “Exactly.”

They turned back to the window, sipping quietly, watching the city breathe.

Inches apart now, the silence between them thick with everything unsaid.

Eddie reached out, fingers brushing Buck’s wrist. “You were the first person I played the album for. Before Hen. Before the label.”

Buck looked up, eyes soft. “I know.”

“I needed you to hear it,” Eddie said. “Because you’re in it. Every line.”

Buck swallowed. “I heard you.”

Eddie’s hand slid up to Buck’s cheek, thumb tracing the edge of his jaw. “I love you.”

Buck blinked, stunned, not because he didn’t know, but because hearing it out loud made it real.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Eddie leaned in, and their lips met—gentle, slow, like a promise. The kiss was quiet, but it carried the weight of years, of games played and songs written and nights spent wondering.

Chapter Text

This life will beat you up, up, up, up

This is just a temporary speed bump

But failure brings you freedom

And I can bring you love

The room was dark, save for the soft glow of the city bleeding through the curtains. Buck sat upright in bed, breath shallow, one hand clutching his shoulder. His jaw was clenched, eyes squeezed shut against the pain that had finally broken through the silence he’d been holding all season.

Eddie stirred beside him, groggy but alert the moment he saw Buck hunched forward.

“Buck?” he whispered, voice thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

Buck didn’t answer right away. He just breathed through it, like he’d practiced. Like he’d survived worse.

Eddie sat up, switched on the bedside lamp. “Talk to me.”

Buck finally looked at him, eyes glassy. “It’s my shoulder. It’s been bad for a while.”

Eddie’s face shifted—concern, confusion, something close to hurt. “How long?”

Buck hesitated. “Since preseason.”

Eddie blinked. “Preseason? Buck, that was—”

“I know.”

Eddie ran a hand through his hair, already out of bed, already searching for ice packs. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Buck shrugged with his good shoulder. “Didn’t want to sit out. Didn’t want to let anyone down.”

Eddie knelt in front of him, pressing the cold pack gently to the swollen joint. “You didn’t let anyone down. You just didn’t let anyone help.”

Buck’s eyes dropped. “I didn’t want to miss the season. Not with everything going on. Not with you.”

Eddie’s voice softened. “You played hurt for months. For me?”

Buck nodded. “For you. For Chris. For the team. I didn’t know how to stop.”

Eddie sat beside him, pulling Buck gently into his arms. “You don’t have to keep proving yourself, Buck. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

Buck let himself lean in, the pain still sharp but the weight of hiding it finally lifting.

“I’m scared,” he admitted.

Eddie kissed his temple. “I know. But you’re not alone.”

They sat like that for a long time, the ice pack slowly warming, the city still humming outside.

And when Buck finally lay back down, Eddie stayed close, hand resting over his heart.

Buck had finally drifted off, the tension in his face softening just enough to let sleep take hold. His shoulder was wrapped in a cold compress, his breathing shallow but steady. The city outside was silent, as if holding its breath for them.

Eddie sat in the armchair across the room, legs pulled up, a blanket draped over his shoulders. He couldn’t sleep—not after what Buck had told him. Not after realizing how long Buck had been hurting.

He watched the rise and fall of Buck’s chest, the way his hand twitched slightly in sleep, like he was still running plays in his dreams. Eddie’s eyes lingered on the shoulder—the one Buck had protected with silence and stubbornness.

Preseason.

That meant every touchdown, every sprint, every dive had been done through pain. And no one knew. Not the coaches. Not the team. Not even Eddie.

Eddie’s throat tightened.

He thought about the way Buck had smiled through interviews, danced with Christopher after games, carried the weight of expectation like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything. And Buck had borne it alone.

Eddie stood quietly, walked over, and knelt beside the bed. He brushed a strand of hair from Buck’s forehead, careful not to wake him.

“I wish you’d told me,” he whispered.

Buck stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

Eddie sat there for a long time, hand resting lightly on Buck’s good arm. He thought about all the times Buck had shown up for him—for Christopher—for everyone. And how rarely he let anyone show up for him.

That would change.

Eddie leaned down, pressed a soft kiss to Buck’s temple.

Then he settled beside him. To be there when Buck woke up. To remind him, in every way that mattered, that love wasn’t just for the easy days. It was for the nights like this, too.

*

The waiting room was quiet, save for the soft buzz of fluorescent lights and the occasional shuffle of papers behind the reception desk. Buck sat with his shoulder in a sling, trying not to show how much it hurt. Eddie was beside him, fingers laced tightly together, eyes flicking between Buck’s face and the door to the exam rooms. Bobby sat across from them, arms folded, his usual calm replaced by something heavier—disappointment, concern, maybe even guilt.

“You should’ve told me,” Bobby said, voice low.

Buck didn’t look up. “I didn’t want to be benched.”

Eddie turned toward him, his voice sharper than usual. “You didn’t want to be helped.”

Buck opened his mouth, then closed it again. The nurse called his name. Eddie stood first, then Buck, and Bobby followed without a word.

Inside the exam room, Dr. Morales greeted them with a nod and a clipboard. She was efficient, gentle, and didn’t waste time. Buck sat on the edge of the table while she examined his shoulder, pressing and rotating with practiced care.

“The MRI shows a partial tear in the rotator cuff,” she said, pointing to the scan. “You’ve been compensating with other muscles, which explains the nerve pain and fatigue. It’s not catastrophic, but it’s serious.”

Buck nodded, jaw tight.

“You’ll need physical therapy. Possibly surgery. If untreated, it could lead to permanent damage.”

Eddie’s hand found Buck’s knee. “What happens if he keeps playing?”

Dr. Morales looked directly at Buck. “He won’t. Not without risking long-term loss of mobility.”

Bobby stepped forward. “You’re benched until you’re cleared. No arguments.”

Buck nodded slowly. “Understood.”

Dr. Morales handed him a folder of instructions and left them alone. Buck stared at the scan, then at the sling on his arm.

“I didn’t want to miss the season,” he said quietly. “Didn’t want to let anyone down.”

Eddie leaned in, forehead against Buck’s. “You didn’t let anyone down. You just didn’t let us carry it with you.”

Buck’s eyes misted. Bobby placed a hand on his good shoulder. “You’re family, Buck. That means you don’t carry this alone.”

Later, back at Eddie’s loft, Buck lay on the couch, shoulder iced again, body exhausted. Christopher tiptoed in, climbed up beside him, and gently placed a blanket over Buck’s legs. “You need rest,” he said solemnly, like a tiny doctor.

Buck smiled. “I’ve got the best team.”

Eddie watched from the kitchen, arms crossed, heart heavy. He thought about Buck playing through pain, through pressure, through silence. He thought about the way Buck had kissed him the night before, said “I love you” like it was a truth he’d been holding in for years.

“I could open a bakery.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, arms crossed as he leaned against the kitchen counter. “A bakery?”

Buck grinned, wincing slightly as he adjusted the sling. “Yeah. Shoulder’s out, football’s on pause… might as well start kneading dough and selling croissants.”

Christopher, still in his pajamas, perked up from the couch. “Can I be the taste tester?”

“Only if you promise not to eat all the inventory,” Eddie said, smirking.

Buck chuckled. “We’ll call it ‘Buck’s Bakes.'"

Eddie walked over, kissed the top of Buck's head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Buck leaned into him. “But you love me.”

Eddie smiled. “I do.”

And Buck, eyes soft, whispered back, “I love you too.”

The room fell quiet again, filled not with tension, but with warmth.

Now Buck was sleeping, brow furrowed even in rest. Eddie walked over, knelt beside him, and brushed a hand through his hair.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered.

And Buck, even in sleep, leaned into the touch.

Chapter Text

And I wake up in the middle of the night

It's like I can feel time moving

How can a person know everything at 18

But nothing at 22?

And will you still want me

When I'm nothing new?

The studio was sleek and modern, all glass walls and soft lighting, with a backdrop of downtown Los Angeles shimmering behind the windows. Eddie Diaz sat across from the host, dressed in a tailored navy suit with a subtle shimmer under the lights, just enough to hint at the showboy beneath the quiet.

The host smiled warmly. “We’re here with Eddie Diaz, whose new album The Life of a Showboy dropped last week and is already climbing global charts. Eddie, welcome.”

Eddie nodded, his voice calm but charged with quiet energy. “Thanks for having me.”

“So let’s start with the obvious—this album feels different. It’s bolder. Happier. Kinda different of the last ones. What made you go there?”

Eddie leaned forward slightly. “I think I stopped performing for the crowd and started singing for the people who were with me when I left the stage. This album isn’t just glitter and rhythm. It’s memory, pain and love.”

The host raised an eyebrow. “Love?”

Eddie smiled, soft and sure. “Yeah. There’s someone in my life who reminded me that being seen doesn’t mean being perfect. That being loved doesn’t mean being easy. A lot of this album is about him, actually.”

The host glanced at her notes. “Track two has fans speculating. Is that the one?”

Eddie chuckled. “That’s the one. It’s about a night that changed everything. We weren’t even talking much then, but something shifted. I wrote it the next morning.”

“And the title—The Life of a Showboy—what does that mean to you? How was to record the song that leaves the album it’s name with May Grant?”

Eddie paused, thoughtful. “It’s about the duality. The sparkle and the silence. The stage and the backstage. I’ve spent years performing, but this album is me pulling back the curtain. And, about May… she is just the sweets person I could ever work to collaborate with. She came to me with the whole pre-chorus without me even asking her to do it. Made changes in the bridge that made it perfect. She is truly amazing.”

The host smiled. “And how’s Christopher reacting to all this?”

Eddie laughed. “He’s my biggest critic and my biggest fan. He told me track five was ‘too slow’ but then asked me to play it every night before bed.”

The host leaned in, smiling warmly. “We’ve heard rumors that some of The Life of a Showboy was written during the Eras Tour. Is that true?”

Eddie laughed, eyes lighting up. “It is. I was singing, crying, losing my voice. And somewhere between ‘Enchanted’ and ‘The Archer’, I started scribbling lyrics on the back of my ticket stub.”

The host raised an eyebrow. “So you were writing while the show was happening?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah. I was surrounded by all that emotion, all that storytelling. It cracked something open in me.” He paused, then added with a soft smile, “So yeah, I wrote parts of The Life of a Showboy while I was in the Eras Tour.”

The host grinned. “That’s iconic.”

Eddie shrugged. “It was magic. And I wanted to bottle some of it.”

“Final question,” the host said, leaning in. “If you could say one thing to the person who inspired this album, what would it be?”

Eddie looked straight into the camera, eyes steady.

“I love you. And I see you. Every day.”

The studio fell quiet for a beat, the kind of silence that means something.

Then the host smiled. “Eddie Diaz, everyone. The Life of a Showboy is out now.”

As the segment wrapped, Eddie stepped off the stage, phone buzzing with messages. One from Buck, already waiting:

You looked beautiful. I love you too.

Eddie smiled, tucked the phone into his pocket, and walked out into the light.

*

He unlocked the door quietly, stepping into the familiar warmth of the space. The scent of cinnamon lingered in the air—Buck must’ve tried baking again. Eddie smiled to himself.

Buck was in the kitchen, wearing an apron over his hoodie, one arm still in a sling, the other holding a wooden spoon like a microphone. He was mid-performance, singing dramatically to Christopher, who sat cross-legged on the counter, giggling uncontrollably.

“—and that’s why you never trust a recipe that says ‘just a pinch’!” Buck declared, twirling.

Christopher clapped. “Encore!”

Eddie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching them with quiet joy.

Buck spotted him first. “Hey, superstar.”

Christopher turned and lit up. “Dad! You’re back!”

Eddie walked over, pressing a kiss to Christopher’s forehead, then turning to Buck. “You’re baking again?”

Buck shrugged. “Therapy starts tomorrow. Figured I’d warm up with cinnamon rolls.”

Eddie chuckled. “You’re ridiculous.”

Buck grinned, setting the spoon down and wiping flour from his cheek with the back of his hand. “Ridiculous and delicious. Try one before you judge.”

Eddie reached for a roll still steaming on the tray, broke off a piece, and popped it into his mouth. His eyebrows lifted. “Okay, I take it back. You might actually be onto something.”

Christopher beamed. “I helped with the frosting!”

Eddie leaned down and kissed his cheek. “Then it’s officially gourmet. But I hate to end up the fun. It’s late, and you, little guy, have school tomorrow.” Eddie scooped his son into his arms, planting a kiss on his messy hair. “Come on, superman. Brush your teeth.”

Christopher rolls his eyes, but goes anyway.

He waved at Buck as Eddie carried him down the hall. “Goodnight, Buck! Save me a roll!”

Buck smiled.

Once the hallway light dimmed and the soft hum of Eddie’s album drifted from Christopher’s room, Eddie returned to the kitchen. Buck was already cleaning up, moving slowly, favoring his shoulder.

Eddie walked over and gently took the dish towel from his hand. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

Buck leaned against the counter, eyes tired but warm. “I know. I just feel better when I’m doing something.”

Eddie stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Buck’s waist. “You don’t have to earn your place here, Buck. You already have it.”

Buck rested his forehead against Eddie’s. “I know. I just forget sometimes.”

Eddie kissed him softly. “Then I’ll remind you. Every goddamn day.”

They stood there for a moment, wrapped in quiet, the scent of cinnamon still lingering in the air. Then Eddie took Buck’s hand and led him toward the bedroom.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go to bed and talk about that bakery.”

Buck lay on his side in bed, sling off for the night, shoulder carefully supported by pillows. Eddie was beside him, one arm draped across Buck’s waist, fingers tracing lazy circles against the fabric of his shirt.

They weren’t talking much, actually. Just breathing together.

Buck broke the silence first, voice quiet. “He was extra sweet tonight.”

Eddie smiled into Buck’s shoulder. “He’s always sweet when you bake.”

Buck chuckled. “I think he’s trying to bribe me into opening that bakery.”

Eddie shifted, propping himself up slightly. “If you do, he’ll demand a corner office and unlimited frosting privileges.”

Buck turned his head, meeting Eddie’s eyes. “He’d be a great big brother.”

The words hung in the air, soft but heavy.

Eddie blinked. “You think about that?”

Buck nodded slowly. “Sometimes. More lately. Watching him grow up… watching you with him. It makes me wonder what it’d be like to raise someone together. From the start.”

Eddie was quiet for a moment, then reached out and brushed a thumb across Buck’s cheek. “I’ve thought about it too. Not just in passing. Really thought about it.”

Buck’s breath caught. “Yeah?”

Eddie nodded. “I see you with Chris. I see how he looks at you. How safe he feels. And I think… maybe we could give that to someone else too.”

Buck swallowed, eyes shimmering. “You think we’d be good at it?”

Eddie leaned in, kissed him softly. “I think we already are.”

Buck lay on his side, facing Eddie, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting golden light across his face. His injured shoulder was propped carefully, but his good arm reached out, fingers brushing Eddie’s wrist like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

Eddie was quiet, eyes tracing the curve of Buck’s jaw, the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked slowly, like he was thinking through something big.

“I’ve never imagined it before,” Buck said, voice low. “Not really. Having kids. Not until I met Christopher. Not until I met you.”

Eddie’s heart thudded, not from nerves, but from the sheer weight of what Buck was saying. “You’d be a great dad,” he said softly.

Buck smiled, a little crooked. “I’d be terrified.”

Eddie chuckled. “That’s part of the job description.”

Buck let out a breathy laugh, then turned his gaze to the ceiling, eyes flicking across the shadows dancing there. “I mean, I’ve seen you do it. You make it look easy.”

Eddie shook his head, smiling. “It’s not. It’s messy and loud and sometimes heartbreaking. But it’s also the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Buck was quiet for a moment, then whispered, “I want that. With you. Not just to be part of Christopher’s life—which I already am—but to build something new. Together.”

Eddie’s chest tightened, not with fear, but with something deeper. Hope. “You mean… like adoption?”

Buck nodded slowly. “Or fostering. Or surrogacy. I don’t know. I just know I want to raise a child with you. Someone who grows up knowing they’re loved from day one.”

Then, Eddie imagined the sound of tiny feet on hardwood floors, laughter echoing through the loft, and a love that kept growing.

*

Dr. Morales stood in front of him, her expression gentle but firm.

She had just finished the evaluation. Buck already knew what was coming—he’d felt it in the way his arm refused to lift past a certain point, in the way the pain lingered even after rest.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” she said, sitting beside him. “Your shoulder’s not responding the way we hoped. The tear’s deeper than we thought, and the nerve damage is more extensive.”

Buck nodded slowly, jaw clenched. “So what does that mean?”

Dr. Morales hesitated, then spoke with quiet clarity. “It means you won’t be able to return to professional football. Not safely. Not at the level you were playing.”

The words landed like a punch. Buck stared at the floor, his breath shallow.

“I’m sorry,” she added. “I know how much this meant to you.”

Buck didn’t speak for a long moment. He just sat there, letting the truth settle into his bones. The dream—the one he’d chased through pain and silence—was over.

Dr. Morales gave him space, her clipboard resting quietly on her lap. Buck’s eyes stayed fixed on the floor, unmoving, as if looking anywhere else might shatter the fragile calm he was clinging to.

His fingers curled into his jeans, knuckles white. The silence wasn’t empty—it was full of everything he couldn’t say. The years of training. The surgeries. The sacrifices. The nights he’d pushed through pain just to prove he still belonged.

And now, it was gone.

But then he thought of Eddie. Of Christopher. Of cinnamon rolls and late-night talks and the way Eddie had said we’ll learn together. He thought of the future they’d started to imagine, the one that didn’t depend on touchdowns or trophies.

Finally, he spoke, voice low and raw. “So that’s it.”

Dr. Morales nodded gently. “That’s it for football. But not for you.”

He looked up, eyes glassy but steady. “Okay. So what do I do now?”

Dr. Morales smiled gently. “You heal. You rebuild. And you figure out who you are beyond the field.”

Buck nodded. “I think I already started.”

Later, Eddie picked him up outside the clinic. Buck climbed into the passenger seat, quiet but composed.

Eddie glanced over. “How’d it go?”

Buck looked out the window, then back at him. “I’m done. Professionally.”

Eddie didn’t say anything at first.

He just reached across the console and rested his hand on Buck’s thigh, grounding him.

Buck’s eyes stayed fixed on the window, but his shoulders trembled slightly. His jaw clenched, trying to hold it in, but the tears came anyway—slow, silent, relentless. No sobs. No gasps. Just the quiet unraveling of a dream that had lived in his bones for years.

Eddie watched him, heart aching. He knew Buck wasn’t just mourning football. He was mourning the version of himself that had always believed the game was the only way to be seen. To be enough.

“I’m here,” Eddie said softly. “You don’t have to hold it in.”

Buck blinked, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I thought I’d be okay. I thought I was ready.”

Eddie leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to Buck’s temple. “You don’t have to be ready. You just have to be honest.”

Buck nodded, barely. “It hurts.”

“I know,” Eddie whispered. “But you’re not alone.”

They sat there in the parked car, the world moving around them, but inside the vehicle, time slowed. Eddie didn’t rush him. Didn’t fix it. Just stayed.

And Buck cried—quietly, completely—until the weight began to shift. Not disappear. But soften.

When the tears finally stopped, Buck turned to Eddie, eyes red but clear. “Thank you.”

Eddie kissed his knuckles. “Always.”

And together, they drove home. 

And as the afternoon light shifted across the room, Buck didn’t feel like a man who had lost everything.

He felt like a man who was just beginning again.

Chapter Text

When I left school, I lost track of you

Abigail called me with the bad news

Goodbye

And we'll never know why

It was not an invitation

But I flew home anyway

With so much left to say

Eddie came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Buck’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder. “You’ve been quiet.”

Buck nodded. “I needed to be.”

Eddie didn’t push.

“I keep thinking about who I was before football,” Buck said. “And I realized that I don’t remember. Not really.”

Eddie kissed the side of his neck. “Maybe it’s time to meet him again.”

Buck turned, eyes searching Eddie’s face. “What if I don’t like who I find?”

Eddie smiled, soft and sure, but, before he could speak anything...

“Can I come in? Talk to Buck, alone?”, Chris asked. Eddie looked at Buck. One nod, then he left the room. 

“Sit here, buddy”, Buck said, tapping the bed. 

Chris nodded. “I get it. Losing something you thought would always be part of you. When Mom left, I thought I’d never feel normal again. I thought families were supposed to look one way. But then you showed up.”

Buck blinked. “Chris…”

“You didn’t try to replace anything,” Chris continued. “You just… stayed. You were there. And that made it easier to breathe.”

Buck swallowed hard, throat tight. “I didn’t know if I was helping.”

“You were,” Chris said simply. “You are.”

They sat in silence again, but this time it felt full, like something had been stitched together between them.

“I don’t care if you’re not a football player anymore,” Chris said. “You’re still Buck. You’re still the guy who taught me how to make grilled cheese without burning the pan. Who stayed up with me when I bombed that math test. You will figure it out what to do next. You’ve got time.”

Buck laughed softly, wiping his eyes. “You’re wise for a teenager.”

Chris paused at the door. “You’re still my hero, Buck. Just so you know.”

And then he was gone, leaving Buck with a silence that didn’t ache the way it used to.

While that happened, Eddie stood at the kitchen, the scent of coffee filling the air. The soft murmur of their voices drifted in, grounding Eddie in the comfort of routine.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

Pepa, the screen read.

He wiped his hands on a dish towel and answered. “Hola, tía.”

Her voice came through, tight and trembling. “Mijo… I’m sorry to call like this.”

Eddie’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Luis,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Eddie paused, the name familiar but distant. “Luis from El Paso?”

“Yes,” Pepa said. “He… he died.”

Eddie’s hand froze on the towel. “What happened?”

There was a long silence. Then: “He took his own life.”

The words hit like a punch to the chest. Eddie leaned against the counter, the warmth of the kitchen suddenly gone cold.

“I thought you should know,” Pepa said gently. “His mamá found him yesterday. The funeral’s in two days. It’ll be small.”

Eddie nodded slowly, his mind struggling to catch up. “Thanks for telling me.”

“I remember you two were close,” she added. “Back in high school.”

Eddie’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. We were.”

They hung up, and Eddie stood there, staring at the bubbling pot on the stove.

The name echoed in his chest, familiar but distant, like a song he hadn’t played in years. He remembered the way Luis used to doodle on his sneakers in high school, the way he always had music playing from a cracked phone speaker, the way he made everyone feel like they belonged.

Eddie hadn’t thought about him in a long time. Not really. Just flashes in yearbook photos, old group chats, the occasional memory stirred by a song or a scent.

But now Luis was gone.

He didn’t feel the full weight of it. Just a strange, hollow ache. Like something had shifted, but he couldn’t name it.

Buck appeared in the doorway, sensing the change. “Everything okay?”

Eddie looked up, eyes distant. “I just got a call. Luis… a friend from El Paso. He died.”

Buck stepped closer. “I’m sorry.”

Eddie nodded, voice quiet. “I think I need to go home.”

Buck didn’t hesitate. “Do you want me to...”

Eddie interrumpted him.

"Yes. Please. Come with me."

And as Eddie turned off the stove and packed away the evening, he didn’t yet realize that the grief stirring inside him wasn’t just for a friend.

*

Eddie stood by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the familiar skyline of his hometown. It looked the same. But everything felt different.

He hadn’t spoken much since they landed. Just the essentials. Directions. Times. Logistics.

But now, the silence was pressing in.

Buck looked up. “You want to talk about him?”

Eddie didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring out the window, then finally said, “I’ve been trying to figure out why this hurts so much.”

Buck set his phone down, listening.

“I mean, yeah, we were close. But it’s more than that. It’s deeper.” Eddie’s voice was low, almost hesitant. “And I think… I think Luis was my first love.”

Buck’s breath caught, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t know it then,” Eddie continued. “Or maybe I did. But I buried it. I buried everything. Because I was scared. Of my parents. Of the church. Of myself.”

He turned from the window, eyes glassy. “I used to pray it away. I used to tell myself it was just admiration. Just friendship. But it wasn’t. I think it was love.”

Buck stood, crossing the room slowly. “Did he know?”

Eddie shook his head. “Maybe. I don’t know. We danced once. In Pepa’s garage. Just us. Music low. And for a second, it felt like the world stopped judging. Like we were just… us.”

He swallowed hard. “But I pulled away. I laughed it off. I made sure no one ever saw us like that again.”

Buck reached out, gently taking Eddie’s hand. “You were surviving.”

Eddie nodded, tears slipping free. “He’s gone. And I never got the chance to say it. I never got to tell him he mattered. That he was the first person who made me feel safe.”

He looked up, eyes wet. Then, he repeated it, “I think he was my first love.”

Buck’s breath caught, but he stayed still, steady.

“I was too afraid,” Eddie whispered. “Of what my parents would say. Of what the guys at school would think. Of what it meant about me. I hated that part of myself. I hated that I felt something so… beautiful.”

Buck reached out, gently brushing Eddie’s knuckles, like he was reading his mind. “You didn’t fail him, Eddie."

Eddie shook his head. “But what if I did? What if he needed someone to say it out loud? To tell him he wasn’t alone?”

Buck’s voice was soft. “You were a kid. You were scared. That doesn’t make you guilty. It makes you human.”

Eddie looked down, tears slipping free. “I wish I could go back. Just once and tell him he mattered. That he was loved.”

Buck leaned in, pressing their foreheads together. “Then tell him now. Tomorrow. Say it out loud. Let him hear it.”

Eddie closed his eyes, breathing in the quiet.

And for the first time since the call, he let himself grieve not just the boy who died, but the love he never got to live.

Tomorrow, he would say goodbye.

They turn the lights off. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the streetlight bleeding through the curtains. Buck lay on his side, half-asleep, but Eddie sat upright in bed, staring at the ceiling like it held answers he couldn’t reach.

His chest felt tight. 

"I can hear you thinking." Buck whispered.

Eddie's voice was barely audible, “But what if I’d called more?”

Buck stirred, turning toward him. “Eddie…”

“I mean, I could’ve. I should’ve. I knew he’d gone quiet. I saw the posts stop. I felt it. And I just… let it go.”

Buck sat up slowly, eyes soft in the dim light. “Again, love, you didn’t know.”

Eddie shook his head, tears slipping down his cheeks. “But what if I did? What if some part of me knew he was breaking down and I ignored it because it was easier? Because I didn’t want to dig up the past?”

His voice cracked. “What if he needed me and I wasn’t there?”

Buck reached out, placing a hand on Eddie’s back. “You’re not responsible for his pain.”

Eddie’s breath hitched. “I keep thinking… if I’d just said something. If I’d told him he mattered. That I loved him. Maybe he wouldn’t have felt so alone.” Eddie turned to him, eyes red. “I’ve thought about it before. Suicide. After Shannon. After the army. I know what that darkness feels like. And I hate that he was in it. Alone.”

Buck pulled him into a hug, holding him tightly. “You’re not alone now. And neither was he—not really. He had memories of you. Of love. Even if it wasn’t spoken.”

Eddie clung to him, the weight of years pressing into his chest. “I just wish I could go back.”

Buck whispered, “Then let’s honor him now. Let’s speak the love you couldn’t then. Let it live.” And then, knowing his boyfriend, Buck pulls a pen and a notebook. “Write.”

He stared at the blank page, then slowly began to write.

If I was standing there
In your apartment
I’d take that bomb
In your head and disarm it
I’d say I love you
Even at your darkest
And, please, don’t go

Eddie stared at the final line, tears slipping silently down his face.

He didn’t know if he’d ever share it. Didn’t know if anyone else would hear it.

But Luis would.

And that was enough.

*

The sun was barely up, casting a soft golden light across the quiet street. Eddie and Buck stood at the front door of Pepa’s house, the desert air cool and still. Eddie hesitated for a moment before knocking, his hand trembling slightly.

The door opened almost immediately.

Pepa stood there in a loose cardigan, her silver-streaked hair pulled back, eyes tired but warm. She looked at Eddie for a long moment, then pulled him into a hug without a word.

“Cariño” she whispered, voice thick. “I’m so sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

Eddie held her tightly, the scent of cinnamon and old wood grounding him. “Me too, tía.”

She pulled back, brushing his cheek with her thumb, then turned to Buck, eyes lighting up with curiosity and warmth.

“And you must be Buck,” she said, her voice softening. “I’ve heard your name more times than I can count.”

Buck smiled, a little shy. “Guilty as charged.”

Pepa reached out and took his hands, squeezing them gently. “I’m enchanted to meet you. Truly. I can see it in Eddie’s eyes how much you mean to him.”

Buck glanced at Eddie, who looked away, cheeks flushed.

“I wish it were a happier visit,” Pepa added, her smile fading. “But I’m glad you’re here. He needs company to survive this visit.”

Buck nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Pepa stepped aside, ushering them in. “Come in, come in. I made coffee. And pan dulce. You boys need something warm before today.”

As they entered the house, Eddie felt a strange mix of grief and comfort. The walls were the same. The furniture. The smell. But everything felt different now—with Buck beside him, and Luis’s absence hanging in the air.

And as Pepa poured coffee and fussed over the pastries, Eddie realized something quietly profound: He wasn’t just back in El Paso since he left. This was the first time he was there showing up as himself.

She didn’t speak much, but her presence was grounding, like a thread holding the morning together.

Eddie sat at the table, dressed in black slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Buck was beside him, helping him polish a pair of dress shoes that hadn’t seen daylight in years. 

“You boys eat. It’s going to be a long day.”

Eddie looked up at her. “Thank you, tía. For everything.”

She brushed his shoulder. “You don’t have to thank me, mijo.”

His hands trembled slightly as he adjust his tie, but he didn’t stop. Buck came up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Eddie swallowed hard. “I’m scared.”

Buck leaned in, forehead touching Eddie’s temple. “I know. But you’re not alone. Don’t forget that.”

Chapter Text

All this time I didn’t know

You were breaking down

I’d fall to pieces on the floor

If you weren’t around

Too young to know it gets better

I’ll be summer Sun for you forever

Forever winter if you go

The air was dry, still, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Eddie stood by the car, dressed in black, his tie perfectly knotted, his expression unreadable. Buck was beside him, adjusting his jacket, watching Eddie with quiet concern.

Pepa stepped out of the house, her eyes soft behind dark sunglasses. She carried a small bouquet of white lilies, her lips pressed into a line of grief.

“Ready?” she asked gently.

Eddie nodded, but his voice didn’t come. He opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat. Buck took the back, letting Pepa drive.

The ride was silent.

Eddie stared out the window, watching familiar streets blur past. The corner store where he used to buy sodas after school. The park where he and Luis once sat for hours, talking about dreams they were too afraid to chase.

His chest tightened.

Buck reached forward, resting a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. No words, just presence.

The building was small, tucked between a church and a bakery. A modest chapel with pale walls and folding chairs. The scent of lilies and incense hung in the air.

Eddie stepped inside and froze.

Luis’s photo sat on a table near the altar. He was smiling. Crooked grin, eyes full of mischief. The same way Eddie remembered him. 

Pepa touched his arm. “You can sit wherever you need to.”

Eddie nodded and walked slowly to the third row. Buck followed, close but not crowding.

The room filled gradually. Quiet murmurs. Soft sobs. Luis’s mother sat in the front, clutching a rosary, her shoulders trembling.

Eddie watched her, guilt pressing into his ribs.

The service began. A priest spoke of peace, of pain, of the mystery of suffering. Eddie barely heard it. His mind was elsewhere—on a garage with music playing low, on a boy who made him feel safe, on a silence that had lasted too long.

Then she appeared. Her steps were slow, deliberate. Her eyes, red-rimmed but clear, locked onto Eddie as she approached. She stopped in front of him, looking up with a gaze that held years of memory and quiet understanding.

“Eddie Díaz,” she said softly.

Eddie nodded, his voice caught in his throat. “Señora. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She reached out and took his hands in hers, warm and trembling. “Luis spoke of you. Not often. But when he did, it was with light in his eyes.”

Eddie’s breath hitched.

“I know you were close,” she continued. “And I know there were things left unsaid. But I believe he carried you with him. Even in silence.”

Eddie swallowed hard, tears threatening. “I wish I’d said more. I wish I’d been there.”

She nodded, her grip tightening. “Would you speak? Would you give the eulogy?”

Eddie froze. The room seemed to tilt slightly.

“I don’t know if I can,” he whispered.

“You can,” she said, voice firm but kind. “Because you knew him. You knew my son more than anyone in this earth. Your voice is the one he believed in.”

Eddie looked at her, heart pounding, then nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll speak.”

She smiled through her tears. “Thank you. He would’ve wanted it to be you.”

He walked to the front, heart pounding, hands shaking. He looked at the photo, then at the crowd.

“My name is Eddie Diaz,” he said, voice rough. “Luis was my friend. My first real friend. I don’t know if you guys know this,” he said, “but I’m a singer.” He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. “And Luis… he was one of the first people to believe in me. To say that I could make it. That my voice mattered.”

The room was silent, the weight of his words settling over the mourners like dust.

“He used to sneak me into the music room after hours,” Eddie continued, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “He’d sit on the piano bench and say, ‘Sing it like you mean it.’ And I did. Because he made me feel like I could.”

His voice cracked.

“I never told him how much that meant. How much he meant.  I don’t know where he is now. I don’t know what happens after this. But I hope, God, I hope, he knows that he mattered. That he changed me for good.”

Eddie’s voice softened.

“Rest easy, Luis. You were light in a world that didn’t always deserve you. And I’ll carry that light with me. Always.”

Eddie reached into his jacket and pulled out the folded lyrics to Forever Winter, the song he’d written the night before.

“I wrote this last night,” he said. “I didn’t sleep. I just… sat with everything I never said. Everything I buried. And this came out.”

He took a breath, then began to sing.

Eddie’s voice broke on the last line, but he didn’t stop. He folded the paper gently, walked to the front, and placed it in the memorial box beside Luis’s photo.

Then he turned to the room, eyes wet but clear.

“He deserved more than silence,” Eddie said. “So I gave him my voice.”

And as he returned to his seat, Buck reached for his hand, holding it tight.

In that moment, Eddie didn’t just mourn.

He honored him.

The sky was bleeding orange and violet, the last light of day slipping behind the mountains. The backyard was quiet, save for the soft hum of cicadas and the occasional creak of the old swing swaying in the breeze.

Eddie sat on the edge of the patio, elbows on his knees, staring at the dry earth like it held answers. Buck was beside him, close but silent, letting the weight of the day settle between them.

Eddie’s voice broke the silence, low and raw.

“I kept thinking today… how short it all is. How fast life goes.”

Buck turned, watching him carefully.

“One minute you’re seventeen, dancing in a garage with someone who makes you feel like the world isn’t so cruel. And the next, you’re standing over a casket, wishing you’d said something, anything, that might’ve made a difference.”

His voice cracked. “I wasted so much time, Buck. Hiding. Pretending. Loving in silence.”

Buck reached out, gently brushing Eddie’s knuckles. 

Eddie shook his head, tears slipping free. “I was surviving, but surviving isn’t living.”

He looked at Buck then, eyes shining with grief and clarity.

“You matter,” he said. “You’ve mattered for a long time. And I don’t want to waste another second pretending I don’t know that.”

Buck’s breath caught, his hand tightening around Eddie’s.

“I’ve spent years hiding pieces of myself,” Eddie said. “But with you… I don’t want to hide anything.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn velvet box—nothing flashy, just something he’d picked up quietly one month ago, unsure if he’d ever find the courage.

Buck stared at it, stunned.

“I know this isn’t perfect,” Eddie said, voice trembling. “And I know we’ve been through hell and back since the day we met. But I love you. I’m in love with you. And I want to build something real. Something honest. Something that doesn’t wait for tragedy to speak.”

He opened the box.

“Will you marry me?”

Buck’s eyes filled with tears, a slow smile breaking across his face.

Buck’s eyes filled instantly, his hand flying to his mouth. He nodded, breathless, then whispered, “Yes. Yes, Eddie. God, yes.”

Eddie let out a shaky laugh, overwhelmed, and Buck pulled him into a fierce, trembling hug.

And in that quiet backyard, beneath a sky that had watched them grow and grieve, Eddie choose to live.

Fully. Loudly and honestly.

Chapter Text

Love, Lights, and a Ring! Eddie Diaz and football star Evan Buckley are officially engaged: and fans are losing it! 

Hold onto your hearts, LA, and the rest of the world, because the internet’s favorite slow-burn romance just turned into a full-blown love story. In a move that sent fans, friends, and family into a frenzy, singer-songwriter Eddie Diaz and football superstar Evan Buckley have officially broke the internet with a single Instagram post announcing their engagement.

The caption? “Your English teacher and your gym teacher are getting married.”

No press. No red carpet. Just vibes, love, and a photo of the two of them grinning like idiots in matching hoodies, Eddie flashing a ring and Buck holding his hand like it’s the only thing that matters.

And honestly? It is.

The post has already racked up over 2 million likes and thousands of comments ranging from “I KNEW IT” to “This is the rom-com we deserve.”

Evan Buckley, known for his record-breaking plays and heart-of-gold interviews, shared a candid photo of fiancé Eddie Diaz asleep on his back, bathed in soft golden light that spilled across his bare shoulder. Eddie’s features were relaxed, peaceful, the kind of quiet intimacy that only comes from deep trust and love, with the caption “love of my life”.

No wedding date has been announced, but if the proposal is anything to go by, expect something intimate, emotional, and unapologetically real.

Congratulations, Buck and Eddie, or should I say, congratulations buddie?! We’re all cheering for you.

Chapter Text

Two months after that, Buck retired, officially, from football with a quiet statement, a handwritten note posted to his socials:

“It’s been a long journey chasing the title. Now I’m chasing peace.”

He opened a bakery in Silver Lake. The bakery became a haven. Mornings filled with cinnamon and laughter. Locals came for the croissants, but stayed for the man behind the counter who remembered their names and asked how their kids were doing.

Eddie would sit in the corner booth with his guitar, scribbling lyrics on napkins, humming melodies between bites of almond pastry. Buck would slide him a fresh coffee and kiss his temple like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They were building something. Not just a business. A life.

*

They brought him home in June.

His name was Logan.

Four months old. Big eyes. A laugh like sunlight. He had a tuft of dark hair and a habit of gripping Eddie’s pinky like it was his lifeline.

They met him through an adoption agency that specialized in placing children with LGBTQ+ families. The moment Eddie held him, he cried. Buck did too. Logan blinked at them like he already knew.

There was a stuffed fox on the shelf and a framed photo of Logan on the dresser. Eddie sang to him every night. Buck danced with him in the kitchen. Logan giggled like he’d been waiting for them.

Christopher was obsessed. He called himself “big brother” and read bedtime stories with dramatic voices. Their house was full. Full of lullabies and flour. Of tiny socks and half-written songs.

On Christmas Eve, Buck posted a photo. Maybe he would fall into photograph later, as a hobby. 

Logan asleep on Eddie’s chest, both of them bathed in golden light. Eddie’s hand cradled the baby’s back, his face soft with sleep. The caption read:

“This love. This life. This everything.”

It went viral in minutes. They spent New Year’s Eve on the couch, Logan between them, watching fireworks through the window. 

On August, almost one year later, the ceremony happened.

The ocean whispered just beyond the cliffs, waves rolling in like applause. The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light across the ceremony space—a quiet garden overlooking the Pacific, strung with white lights and wildflowers in every shade of soft.

Eddie stood at the altar, dressed in a tailored navy suit, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the silver ring already on his finger. Buck was walking toward him now, arm in arm with Maddie, his smile so wide it looked like it might break him open.

Buck reached the altar, eyes locked on Eddie’s. He took both of Eddie’s hands, grounding them, steadying them.

He looked at Buck, heart in his throat.

“You were the light I didn’t know I needed. You were the voice that called me out of silence. You saw me when I was still afraid to look at myself. And you stayed. You stayed through grief, guilt, and every wall I built. You taught me that love doesn’t have to be hidden. That it can be loud. That it can be soft. That it can be mine. I promise to never waste another second. I promise to choose you, every day. I'm a fire and I'll keep your brittle heart warm if your cascade, ocean wave blues come. I love you. I always have. I always will.”

Buck was crying now, openly, shamelessly.

He took a breath and spoke his own.

“We begin our vows the same way.” Laughs exploded. “You were the light I didn’t know I needed. You were the quiet I didn’t know I could have. You gave me a home in your heart, even when you didn’t know it. And that made me brave. Brave enough to love you. Brave enough to be loved by you. I promise to protect your heart like it’s my own. I promise to listen, to learn, to grow. I promise to never let you forget how deeply you are loved. You are my forever. My peace.”

The officiant smiled through tears. “By the power vested in me, and by the love you’ve so clearly built—Eddie, Buck—you are now husbands.”

They kissed.

And the crowd erupted—Maddie sobbing, Christopher cheering, little Logan in Pepa’s arms, Hen and Chim clapping like proud siblings.

Later, under the stars, Eddie sang a mashup of two of his songs: The Prophecy and This Love.

A whole life in those verses.

One they had written together.

Chapter Text

The Life of a Showboy, by Eddie Diaz
Album - October 3, 2025
Track 1. The Fate of Hamlet
Track 2. Elizabeth Taylor
Track 3. Opalite
Track 4. Father Figure
Track 5. you’re on your own, kid (live from Super Bowl, 2025)
Track 6. Eldest Son
Track 7. Ruin The Friendship
Track 8. Actually Romantic
Track 9. Wi$h Li$t
Track 10. Wood
Track 12. CANCELLED!
Track 12. Honey
Track 13. The Life of a Showboy (feat. May Grant)
Track 14. This Love (live from Long Pond Studio Sessions
Track 15. Timeless (live from Long Pond Studio Sessions)
13 songs - 53min