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Eddie Diaz had never heard his house be this loud and this quiet at the same time.
It was loud in the way empty places always were—every creak of the heater, every tick of the clock on the wall, the distant whoosh of cars on the street. All of it bounced around the hollow spaces where Christopher’s crutches usually sat, where his sneakers usually squeaked across the floor, where Buck’s laugh had used to fill in all the gaps.
Now it was just… him.
Him and the leftovers of a life that had rearranged itself in the span of a few weeks.
There was still an extra toothbrush in the bathroom—the one Buck had forgotten the first time he moved in and then declared his “official sleepover toothbrush” when Eddie teased him about it. There were still faint scuff marks on the doorframe from Buck carrying in boxes. The couch cushions were still broken in exactly the way they’d been when Buck lived here, because apparently muscle memory was stronger than reality.
And Christopher was in El Paso. With his parents. For Christmas.
Which Eddie had agreed to. He had promised, even, because they missed their grandson and Chris missed them and it wasn’t like Eddie could argue that they didn’t deserve time with him.
But he hadn’t fully factored in the part where his kid would be thousands of miles away and the man who’d turned this house into a home again had moved out.
He stared at the Christmas tree in the corner—the one he and Chris and Buck had decorated early “just in case things get busy at the holidays”—and tried very hard not to think the words I hate this.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table.
He snatched it up like maybe the universe had heard him complain and was delivering Christopher, wrapped in shipping foam, via text message.
It was Buck.
Of course it was.
Buck: you up?
Eddie snorted. Did Buck think there was even a chance he was asleep? Not when his son was in a different time zone and his best friend had left a crater in the shape of himself right in the middle of Eddie’s life.
Eddie: yeah
The typing dots appeared almost immediately. Then disappeared. Then reappeared.
Buck, apparently, was having a full emotional crisis via iMessage.
Buck: can i call?
Eddie’s chest pinched. Because, sure, okay, this house was missing a lot of things right now, but Buck’s voice had been the soundtrack for most of the last year and Eddie wasn’t ready to give that up too.
Eddie: yeah.
The phone started buzzing with Buck’s name before he even hit send.
“Hey,” Eddie said, trying to sound casual and not like he’d practically dove over the coffee table for this. “You know there’s this crazy thing called sleep?”
Buck groaned so loudly through the phone that Eddie had to pull it away from his ear. “I can’t sleep.”
“Shocking,” Eddie said. “Is everything okay? Is Maddie okay? Jeez, is Jee—”
“Everyone’s fine,” Buck cut in quickly. “I mean, mostly fine. Holiday-level fine. Which is like, you know, normal fine but with tinsel.”
Eddie leaned back on the couch, letting his head fall against the cushion. He turned his eyes back to the Christmas tree lights, because looking at something pretty while listening to Buck complain was basically self-care at this point. “Okay, so what’s going on?”
“Promise you won’t laugh.”
That was never a good start.
Eddie was already smiling. “No.”
“Eddie.”
“Buck.”
“Eddie,” Buck whined, and Eddie could picture his face perfectly—mouth turned down, eyebrows doing that puppy-dog thing that should be illegal on a grown man. “Come on.”
“Okay, fine,” Eddie said. “I promise I won’t laugh.”
He absolutely would laugh. But he’d do it silently, like an adult.
“Maddie wants me to come home for Christmas,” Buck blurted. “To Hershey. She got this whole thing worked out with Chimney’s miles and flight times and layovers and I just—” He broke off, making a frustrated noise. “I don’t want to go.”
Eddie blinked at the ceiling. “You… don’t want to see your sister and your niece for Christmas?”
“No, I do,” Buck said immediately. “I mean, yes, of course I do. I want to squeeze Jee-Yun until she bites me to get away and I want to watch Maddie do that thing where she’s secretly crying about how big Jee is getting while pretending she’s just really emotional about mashed potatoes.” He huffed out a breath. “I just… don’t want to fly.”
Eddie frowned. “Since when?”
Buck was quiet for a second. “Since I just really don't like flying.”
“Okay,” Eddie conceded. “That’s fair.”
“And I hate winter,” Buck added, winding himself up. “Have I mentioned that? It’s cold. It’s wet. It’s dark at four p.m. The last time I was in Pennsylvania for Christmas I fell on my ass on a patch of ice in front of like fifty people and that was before I had metal in my leg and a freak medical history. I’m a walking hazard in snow, Eddie.”
Eddie’s mouth twitched. “You’re a walking hazard in sunshine.”
“Exactly!” Buck said, like this proved something. “At least here when I almost die it’s in my natural habitat.”
Eddie let himself laugh, quiet and soft. “So tell Maddie no.”
Buck groaned again. “I can’t. It’s Maddie. She did that voice. The quiet disappointed one where it sounds like she’s not mad, she’s just sad you’re a coward.”
“Buck—”
“And she said she wants a proper family Christmas,” he continued miserably. “With her baby brother and her baby and her ridiculous husband and, like, a tree and cocoa and stuff. Who says no to that? I can’t say no to that. I’m not a monster.”
Eddie’s heart squeezed, something tender and protective rising up in his chest.
He hated that Buck’s brain could fight in both directions like this—was scared to go, would hate himself if he didn’t.
Another trait they unfortunately shared.
“So what are you gonna do?” Eddie asked quietly.
Silence hummed on the line. Eddie could hear faint traffic noise through Buck’s end, the sound of his new apartment building doing apartment building things. It made something in Eddie twitch, thinking of Buck in a place that wasn’t… here.
“I was thinking,” Buck said slowly, “I could drive.”
Eddie sat up. “To Pennsylvania.”
“Yeah.”
“From L.A.”
“Yeah,” Buck said again, voice going a little defensive. “It’s not that crazy. I Google Mapped it. It’s like… twenty-eight hundred miles? Thirty-two hours if I don’t pee, hit traffic, or stop to eat.”
“Great plan,” Eddie said. “No notes.”
“I’d break it up!” Buck protested. “Make a whole road trip out of it. I’ve never seen half the states between here and there. I could do, like, motels and diners and roadside attractions. The world’s biggest ball of yarn.”
“Pretty sure that’s not on the way,” Eddie said, but his brain was already moving, doing that thing where it rearranged his life in real time.
Christopher in El Paso. For another week and a half.
Eddie covering shifts as needed, sure, but otherwise… free.
House. Too quiet.
Best friend. Driving across the country alone.
An image popped up uninvited: Buck, in that stupid soft hoodie Eddie liked too much, hands on the wheel, singing along to some over-earnest Christmas song, alone in the car. Alone in cheap motel rooms. Alone in the mornings with busted coffee machines and bad waffles.
Eddie’s stomach twisted. Hard.
“Buck,” he heard himself say before his brain caught up, “I’ll come with you.”
There was a beat of utter silence.
Then Buck said, faintly, “What?”
Good. Excellent. Totally thought this through.
“Well, like you said,” Eddie pushed on, because his mouth had apparently decided it was in charge now, “you’ll make a road trip out of it. You shouldn’t do that alone.”
“I— Eddie, you’ve got Chris,” Buck said. “And the holidays and—”
“Chris is with my parents,” Eddie reminded him. “You know that.”
“Yeah, but like, you’re supposed to be—” Buck flailed, audibly. “Doing… dad things. Christmas dad things. I don’t know.”
“Christmas dad thing number one is letting his grandparents spoil him,” Eddie said, surprising himself with how sure his voice sounded. “He’s set, Buck. Trust me, my mom already sent me a detailed itinerary.” He rubbed at his face. “It’s either sit here by myself and watch holiday reruns or go on a cross-country road trip with you and argue over the playlist.”
He could practically feel Buck narrow his eyes through the phone. “You hate long drives.”
“I do.”
“You hate the cold.”
“Correct.”
“And you get weird about hotel pillows.”
“In my defense,” Eddie said, “hotel pillows feel like they’re filled with packing peanuts.”
“What about work?” Buck demanded. “Chim and I are already gone and they are gonna need—”
“I already checked the schedule,” Eddie lied. He would check the schedule. Tomorrow. “We’ve got a gap. Hen said she’d swap a shift if I wanted to go to El Paso for a bit.” That part, at least, was true. “I’ll text Chim. It’s fine. We’ll be back before New Year’s.”
Silence hummed again.
Eddie’s heart was doing a very annoying thing where it climbed up into his throat despite the fact that this was fine. This was a normal suggestion. This was what friends did. Best friends. Coworkers. People who lived a door apart for 6 months and then pretended they were okay when that door moved to a different building.
Normal.
“You’d really do that?” Buck asked quietly.
Eddie swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course I would.”
He heard Buck breathe out, a soft exhale that made his chest feel too tight. “Okay,” Buck said, and Eddie could hear the smile shaping the word. “Okay. Let’s go on a road trip.”
They left three days later, just after sunrise, which Eddie counted as proof that God either loved him or wanted to see him suffer.
Because there was Buck, leaning against his Jeep in Eddie’s driveway, phone in one hand, coffee in the other, the sky behind him streaked pink and gold. He was wearing that stupid soft hoodie again—Eddie’s hoodie, in Eddie’s totally unbiased and very calm opinion, given how much time Buck had spent on his couch in it—and a beanie that covered his curls but left his ears out.
Eddie had a complicated relationship with Buck’s ears.
He didn’t want to think about it.
“Morning,” Buck called, grinning as Eddie hefted his duffel. “You ready to regret this?”
“Already do,” Eddie said. “You packed snacks or are we stopping every ninety minutes for you to buy gummy worms?”
“I’ll have you know I am a highly organized road tripper,” Buck said, affronted. He popped open the back of the Jeep with a flourish and Eddie stared.
And then he stared harder.
Because the back of the Jeep looked like a Pinterest board had exploded inside it. There were labeled grocery bags and a cooler and a neatly folded blanket. Buck had somehow corralled his chaos into Ziploc bags.
“You made a snack bar,” Eddie said slowly.
“I made a snack system,” Buck corrected, sounding very proud. “Salty, sweet, crunchy, chewy. Hydration, caffeine, emergency chocolate, emergency-emergency chocolate, and an ice scraper I bought just to make you feel better.”
Eddie blinked. “Make me feel better?”
“You’re driving into snow country with a guy who complains when L.A. dips below sixty-five,” Buck said cheerfully. “I have to at least pretend I’m prepared.”
Eddie’s heart did something stupid in his chest.
Shut up, he told it. They’re just snacks.
He tossed his duffel on top of the organized chaos, ignoring the way Buck winced and immediately started rearranging. “You sure you want to take your car?” Eddie asked, mostly to distract himself from the urge to help Buck fold the blanket better. “We could still swap for mine.”
“No way,” Buck said. “My Jeep’s more fun.”
Eddie eyed the backseat, which contained exactly zero legroom and about six hundred calories of trail mix. “Fun,” he repeated. “That’s one word for it.”
“Live a little, Diaz,” Buck said, bumping his shoulder as he walked past. “Shotgun gets DJ privileges.”
“Who says I’m not driving first?”
Buck blinked. “You want to drive my Jeep?”
Eddie lifted his eyebrows. “You don’t?”
“I mean, yeah, I do, but I feel like you and my car have a complicated relationship,” Buck said. “Like, you respect it, but you judge it.”
“I judge the driver,” Eddie said.
Buck laughed, bright and delighted, and Eddie had to look away, because the sunrise didn’t need competition.
“Fine,” Buck said. “We’ll switch. I’ll start so you can say goodbye to your house properly, and then somewhere around Needles you can pretend my Jeep is an F-150 and I won’t say anything.”
“That’s a lie,” Eddie muttered.
“It is,” Buck agreed cheerfully.
They loaded the last bags, Eddie did a quick final check of the house—stove off, lights on timers, door locked—and then he took one last look at the living room.
The tree glowed softly in the corner. Christopher’s favorite ornament—a lopsided clay star—hung front and center. There was a photo of the three of them on the mantle, Chris in the middle, Buck and Eddie flanking him, all three laughing at some unseen joke.
For a second, the quiet wrapped around him again.
He could have stayed. He could have sat on this couch and waited out Christmas with takeout containers and bad TV and the version of loneliness he had gotten very good at pretending was fine.
Instead, he turned away and walked toward Buck’s ridiculous Jeep.
Maybe this was worse. Maybe it was better.
He didn’t know yet.
“Eddie!” Buck called as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “You coming or are you just gonna brood dramatically in your doorway? Because, like, A-plus brooding, very Batman, but we gotta get to Hershey before New Year’s.”
Eddie rolled his eyes, locking the door behind him. “I’m coming.”
“Sun’s up, we got coffee, we got snacks—road trip!” Buck sang, gunning the engine to a throaty rumble that made him grin like a kid. “Next stop: Christmas.”
Eddie shook his head, fighting a smile as he climbed in.
He pulled the door shut, Buck put the Jeep in drive, and just like that, they were off.
By hour three, Eddie had learned several things.
One: Buck had somehow curated a Christmas playlist that veered wildly between classics, pop bangers, and exactly three songs that made Eddie’s chest hurt in a way he refused to examine. (“Driving Home for Christmas” should be illegal, actually. On principle.)
Two: Buck talked with his hands even when he was driving, which meant the universe had decided Eddie would spend this trip dying slow, hand-shaped deaths every time Buck took one hand off the wheel to emphasize something. His fingers were long and strong and his knuckles were tan and his wrists did this little flex when he turned the steering wheel that Eddie absolutely did not notice.
Not more than three times, anyway.
Three: If Eddie stared out the passenger window for exactly three seconds after Buck laughed, the world tilted itself just enough for everything to feel… normal. Like this was a thing they always did. Like of course they were driving across the country together for Christmas because of course.
“We should get matching hats,” Buck announced suddenly as they sped east on the 40, desert stretching out on either side.
Eddie blinked. “What?”
“For the snow,” Buck said, clapping his hands once in excitement before putting them back on the wheel. “We can stop at, like, a gas station in Flagstaff and get those horrible tourist beanies. Mine could say something about chocolate. Yours can say—”
“If it says ‘Grumpy,’ I’m walking,” Eddie warned.
Buck grinned. “I was going to say ‘Snow Patrol,’ but now I’m definitely rethinking ‘Grumpy.’”
“You’re a menace,” Eddie muttered, but his lips were curling.
Buck shot him a quick sideways look, and something in his expression softened. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Are you okay?”
Eddie’s smile faltered.
Because that was another thing about Buck: he noticed. He noticed when Eddie’s shoulders were just a little too tight, when he was too quiet, when he was pretending to be fine because that was easier than saying I miss my kid and I miss you and I don’t know how to do Christmas without either of you.
“I’m fine,” Eddie said automatically.
Buck’s expression didn’t change.
“Just—” Eddie sighed, leaning his head back. “First time I’m not with Chris for Christmas.”
Buck’s mouth turned down. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Eddie said quickly, because if he wasn’t careful, his voice was going to do something embarrassing like crack. “He’s excited. My parents are over the moon. It’s just… weird.”
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck,” Buck said. “Two things can be true.”
Eddie huffed out a breath. “Look at you, all emotionally evolved.”
“I learned from the best,” Buck said softly.
Heat crawled up the back of Eddie’s neck.
He looked out the window again, watching the desert roll past, dry and endless under the winter sun.
He thought about Christopher’s face on the phone last night, lit up by his grandparents’ tree. He thought about the way Chris had said, Okay, Dad, and then, Tell Buck I said hi.
“Yeah,” Eddie said, his throat thick. “It sucks.”
He felt Buck’s hand brush his knee. Just for a second. Just a warm, solid weight, there and gone.
Eddie’s entire nervous system lit up like the tree in his living room.
He did not look at Buck.
He absolutely did not.
Because, okay. Fine. So maybe it was possible that Eddie had… feelings. Singular feeling. Adjacent to feelings. A feelings-adjacent situation regarding one Evan Buckley.
It wasn’t like this was new information.
He’d known, in some stubborn, quiet part of himself, for a long time now. In the way he always sought Buck out on a scene, in the way his body relaxed when Buck walked into a room, in the way he woke up in the middle of the night to phantom footsteps in the hallway that weren’t there anymore.
He’d just gotten very good at not reading the label on the feelings-adjacent box.
That was all.
“Wanna switch at the next rest stop?” Buck asked after a while, breaking into his thoughts. “Let you tame the beast?”
Eddie snorted. “Your car is not a beast.”
“She’s offended you’d say that,” Buck said. “Deeply.”
Eddie let himself laugh, and the heaviness in his chest eased a little.
Okay. He could do this. He could sit in a car with Buck for three days, sleep in motel rooms, share snacks, argue about music, and not, under any circumstances, fall more in love with his best friend than he already wasn’t.
Easy.
Totally.
They hit Arizona just as the sun was starting to paint the sky in colors that looked fake.
Buck insisted on stopping at a lookout point so he could “do the Instagram boyfriend thing and take pictures of you all broody with the scenery.”
“That’s not a thing,” Eddie said, squinting at him as the wind tugged at his jacket.
“It absolutely is,” Buck said. “C’mon, stand over there, look thoughtful, give me ‘man contemplating highway life choices.’”
Eddie rolled his eyes but did it anyway, because apparently he was weak.
Buck snapped pictures, muttering to himself about angles and lighting, then grinned at the result and angled the phone so Eddie could see.
It was… a picture.
Of him.
Standing on the edge of a highway rest stop, hands in his pockets, wind ruffling his hair, sky stretching big and bright behind him.
He looked… different. Softer around the edges. Lighter, somehow.
Buck was looking at the photo with equal parts pride and fondness, like he’d caught something Eddie didn’t recognize in himself.
“Send that to Chris,” Buck said. “He’s gonna want proof you’re not just sitting at home in the dark.”
“Rude,” Eddie said, but his chest did that warm twisty thing again. “You get one.”
“One what?”
“One unsolicited photoshoot,” Eddie said. “The next one you plan, I’m charging.”
“I’ll pay in snacks,” Buck bargained.
“Done.”
They swapped drivers after that. Eddie slid behind the wheel, Buck made a big show of buckling in and patting the dashboard soothingly—“Don’t worry, girl, I won’t let him judge you too hard”—and then they were back on the road, east and further east.
By the time they crossed into New Mexico, the desert had shifted to something a little rougher, the air cooler. Buck fiddled with the heater, Eddie adjusted his grip on the wheel, and Christmas lights started appearing on distant houses like little pockets of color.
They rolled into a small town off the interstate just as full dark fell, both of them starting to feel the edges of exhaustion.
Buck pointed at the first budget motel they saw. “That one.”
“You didn’t even look at the others,” Eddie said.
“It has a giant inflatable Santa on the roof,” Buck countered. “How can you not trust that?”
Eddie squinted at the peeling paint and flickering vacancy sign. “…Easily.”
“Come on,” Buck coaxed. “Live dangerously.”
“Again, we’re firefighters,” Eddie said. “This is not exactly “living dangerously.”
“Consider it an adventure,” Buck said, already unbuckling his seatbelt.
Eddie sighed. “If we get bedbugs, I’m sending them home with you.”
They hauled their bags into the lobby, which smelled faintly of pine cleaner and something fried. A small TV in the corner was playing a Christmas movie with the sound off. The clerk behind the desk looked up from his phone with the expression of someone spiritually already on his break.
“Evening,” he said. “You boys want a room?”
“Two,” Eddie said automatically.
Buck elbowed him. “Uh, yes,” he said at the same time. “Two beds?”
The clerk tapped at his computer. “You’re lucky,” he said after a moment. “We just had a cancellation. Got one room left.”
Eddie relaxed. “Perfect.”
“With one king,” the clerk added.
There was a moment when time just… stopped.
Eddie’s brain, tragically, did not.
One bed.
One king bed.
Not even two queens they could pretend were separate continents. Just one large expanse of mattress that his dumb, traitorous mind immediately pictured with Buck sprawled across it, all long limbs and soft sleepy smiles and—
Okay, absolutely not.
“Is there anything else?” Eddie asked, hoping he sounded normal and not like he was currently sprinting a full marathon inside his own chest.
The clerk shook his head. “Got a team of snowplow guys took the last four doubles a few hours ago. You can try the place across the highway, but they’re usually booked solid this time of year.”
Buck turned to Eddie, eyes wide, obviously about to say something noble and self-sacrificing like I’ll sleep in the car.
Eddie could see it forming.
Which was how he ended up hearing himself say, “We’ll take it.”
Buck’s head snapped toward him. “We will?”
Eddie kicked him, lightly, under the counter. “We will,” he repeated, handing over his card.
It was fine.
They’d shared space before. They’d crashed on opposite ends of Eddie’s couch after long shifts. Buck had fallen asleep in Eddie’s bed once when he was recovering from the shooting and Eddie had taken the couch like it was no big deal.
This was just… horizontal proximity.
“Thanks,” Buck said a minute later when they were walking down the hallway, keycard in hand. “You didn’t have to— I could’ve—”
“What, slept sitting up in your car in the parking lot?” Eddie snorted. “Yeah, no. I’m not explaining to Maddie how you froze your ass off in a Kia Sportage instead of sharing a perfectly good bed.”
“It’s a Jeep,” Buck protested.
“Same difference.”
“It’s really not.” Buck pouted.
Their room was… fine. A little dated, but clean. A bedspread with an aggressive floral pattern took up most of the visual real estate. The king bed loomed in the center like a plot device.
Eddie set his bag down on the small table and absolutely did not stare at the bed.
“Dibs on this side,” Buck said immediately, pointing at the half closer to the bathroom. “Easier access for my tiny bladder.”
“Did not need to know that,” Eddie muttered.
“It’s important information,” Buck said solemnly. “You’ll thank me when I don’t step on your face in the middle of the night.”
“That implies you think I’m sleeping that close to the edge,” Eddie said before his brain could stop him.
Buck blinked at him.
Eddie wanted to die. Or at least go back in time and slap a hand over his own mouth.
“I mean,” he added quickly, “we’re— I’m leaving a buffer.”
“Buffer,” Buck repeated, and then grinned. “Sure. Safety buffer. For my tiny bladder and your hotel pillow issues.”
“Exactly.”
They changed into sleep clothes with the sort of careful choreography only established roommates could manage—back turns, quick glances, zero commentary on the fact that Buck’s t-shirt rode up enough to show a strip of skin when he stretched.
Eddie absolutely did not look.
He slid under the covers as far to the right as humanly possible without risking falling off, facing away, hands tucked tight against his chest.
Buck turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into soft darkness, then settled on his side with a content sigh.
“Hey, Eddie?” he said into the quiet.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for coming with me.”
Eddie stared at the patterned wallpaper he could barely see. His chest ached.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Anytime.”
He listened to Buck’s breathing even out, slow and steady, and ordered himself to relax.
He was fine. This was fine. This was a bed. People shared beds all the time. It didn’t mean anything.
Somewhere around two a.m., he woke up warm.
It took him a second to identify why.
Buck was pressed along his back, an entire human heater. One arm had found its way around Eddie’s waist, hand resting just under his t-shirt, fingers splayed across his stomach.
Eddie’s entire body went rigid.
Do not panic, he told himself. Do not panic, do not panic, do not—
His heart was doing its best hummingbird impression against his ribcage. Heat rolled through him in slow, lazy waves, chasing away the last of the night chill.
Buck shifted slightly, tightening his arm, his nose nudging the back of Eddie’s neck.
“Mm,” he mumbled, half asleep. “S’cold.”
Eddie closed his eyes.
He could move. He could. He could gently pry Buck’s arm away, roll over, shove him to his side of the bed. He could reclaim the safety buffer that had clearly failed in the night.
Instead, very carefully, like he was defusing a bomb, Eddie let his hand rest over Buck’s forearm.
Just for warmth.
Just so Buck didn’t slide his hand lower, because that would definitely be worse.
This was a lie. His body knew it was a lie. His body had notes about the “worse” part, none of which were appropriate for a man hugging his best friend in an off-brand motel in New Mexico.
He listened to Buck breathe, slow and even, and tried to memorize the feeling without admitting that’s what he was doing.
In the morning, Buck would probably roll away and never know.
In the morning, they’d get back in the car, back on the road, back to pretending this was normal.
But for now—for just this one moment—Eddie let himself lean back into the warmth and close his eyes.
They didn’t talk about waking up tangled together.
Mostly because Buck didn’t mention it at all, just yawned and stretched and shuffled to the bathroom like nothing unusual had happened.
Eddie, meanwhile, had a vivid, cinematic replay of the night every time he blinked.
When Buck said, “You okay?” while they were loading the car, Eddie nearly confessed to everything he’d ever done wrong in his life just to clear the slate.
“Fine,” he said instead, and then ruined it by fumbling his coffee so badly Buck had to rescue it from certain death on the asphalt.
Smooth. Very smooth.
They pushed east again, New Mexico giving way to Texas, then Oklahoma.
The world outside the windows turned gradually more wintery—fields dusted with frost in the mornings, trees stripped of leaves, breath fogging in front of their faces when they stopped for gas.
Inside the car, it felt weirdly like summer.
They talked about everything and nothing. Old calls that had stuck with them, Christopher’s latest Pokémon obsession, Maddie’s insistence that they send “progress reports” every time they crossed a state line.
Buck quizzed Eddie on US geography with increasingly dramatic disappointment every time he got something wrong.
“You’ve lived here how long?” he demanded when Eddie guessed Kansas was above Arkansas. “And you let your son read maps?”
“My son doesn’t read maps,” Eddie retorted. “My son uses GPS like a normal child of the digital age.”
“He gets that from me,” Buck said proudly.
Eddie opened his mouth to argue and then realized, with a little jolt, that he couldn’t.
Because Buck was right.
Christopher did get that from him.
Christopher got a lot from him—his jokes, his weird food combos, the way he lit up when Buck walked in the room.
They stopped for lunch at a diner where the waitress called them honey and sweetheart and fussed over Buck’s “pretty eyes” and tried to give them extra pie.
Eddie, to his credit, did not get irrationally annoyed about that.
He did, however, feel something twist in his chest when Buck smiled at her, easy and charming, and said, “I’m driving my best friend home for Christmas. We deserve pie.”
“Best friend,” Eddie repeated later in the car, rolling the words around his tongue like they were unfamiliar.
Buck glanced over, brow furrowing. “Yeah?”
Eddie shrugged, suddenly feeling like he’d touched something fragile. “Just— it’s nice. Hearing you say it.”
“Oh,” Buck said, and his smile softened, went quiet. “You are, you know.”
Eddie’s throat went tight. “Yeah,” he said. “You too.”
Buck’s fingers tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel, something upbeat and a little nervous.
“Hey,” he said after a moment. “Random question. Do you ever think about… leaving?”
Eddie’s hands stiffened where they rested on his thighs. “Leaving what?”
“L.A.,” Buck said. “The 118. Starting over somewhere else. I mean, you did it twice, right? Texas to here? LA to Texas. You ever think about a part three?”
Eddie stared out at the endless stretch of highway ahead of them, the horizon hazy.
He had thought about it. In darker moments, when it felt like everything in L.A. had teeth. When the city held too many ghosts and too many memories and too many ways to get hurt.
But every time he’d tried to imagine packing up, putting Christopher in a car, pointing themselves somewhere new, he’d hit the same snag.
He couldn’t picture leaving Buck. Again.
Which was… inconvenient.
“I used to,” he admitted. “When I first moved here, I told myself it wasn’t forever. Just… a stop. A place to figure things out, then move on.” He exhaled slowly. “But then I got the job. And I met everyone. And Chris—” His mouth twitched. “Chris met you.”
Buck’s grip tightened slightly on the wheel.
“And now?” Buck asked, voice very careful.
“Now I’ve got roots,” Eddie said. “Whether I meant to or not.”
There was a long pause.
“Good,” Buck said quietly.
Eddie looked over.
Buck was staring straight ahead, jaw tight, eyes a little too bright.
“What about you?” Eddie asked impulsively. “Have you ever thought about leaving?”
“Sometimes,” Buck admitted. “When it feels like I’m… too much for everyone. Or not enough.” He shrugged, a little jerky. “But then I think about Chris. And Maddie. And you.” He grimaced, like he’d said more than he meant to. “And the 118, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Eddie said, heartbeat pounding in his ears.
They fell into silence after that, heavier but not uncomfortable.
Outside, the sky had started to gray.
By the time they hit Missouri, the first snowflakes were falling.
At first, Eddie thought it was dust on the windshield. Then Buck squinted, hit the wipers, and laughed in disbelief.
“Oh my God,” he said. “It’s snowing.”
“Congratulations,” Eddie said. “You’ve discovered weather.”
“Shut up,” Buck said, grinning out at the flurries. “It’s kind of pretty.”
It was.
The flakes danced in the air, catching the headlights, swirling past. The road started to glisten, a thin sheen of wet cold that Eddie’s instincts did not love.
He leaned forward slightly, peering at the highway. “We should slow down.”
“We are slowed down,” Buck protested. “Grandmas are passing me.”
“Then be slower than the grandmas,” Eddie said. “You’re not getting totaled because you wanted to show off for a bunch of minivans.”
The snow thickened as they drove, flurries turning into real flakes, real accumulation. The world closed in, the edges of the road growing fuzzy.
Traffic started to thin as people wisely chose not to test their mortality.
Eddie’s shoulders crept up inch by inch.
Buck noticed. Of course he did.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Do you wanna switch? I can—”
“I’m fine,” Eddie lied.
He was not fine.
He was having desert regrets. He missed asphalt he could see. He missed L.A. smog.
The snow came harder.
“Okay,” Buck said, in that voice he used when someone was about to bleed out unless they listened to him. “New plan. We’re getting off at the next exit.”
“We’re not that far from—”
“We’re getting off at the next exit,” Buck repeated firmly. “Look at the road, Eddie.”
Eddie looked.
The lane lines were almost completely hidden now, the tires making that awful soft grinding sound on slush. The wipers squeaked frantically against the windshield.
Fine.
They were not losing this Jeep, this road trip, or their lives to a snowstorm.
Eddie put on his blinker—pointless, but it made him feel better—and eased them onto the off ramp.
The exit deposited them in the middle of a small town that looked like it had been built specifically for Christmas movies. White lights twined around lampposts. Wreaths hung from storefronts. Snow was rapidly frosting every available surface.
“Okay, wow,” Buck breathed. “We really did drive into a Hallmark movie.”
“My worst nightmare,” Eddie muttered, turning carefully down the main street. “Keep an eye out for—”
“Diner,” Buck said immediately, pointing. “With a giant sign that says Hot Cocoa.”
“Sold,” Eddie said, pulling into the small parking lot.
By the time they made it from the car to the diner door, snow was sticking in their hair, soaking into the shoulders of their jackets. The wind knifed through Eddie’s jeans, biting at his ankles.
Inside, the diner was warm and bright, the air filled with the smell of grease and sugar and coffee.
A bell jangled as they stepped in.
Conversation dipped for a second as the handful of locals turned to look at them—two guys, snow-dusted and stamping their feet like idiots—but then the regulars went back to their meals.
A waitress with a Santa pin on her apron waved them toward a booth. “You boys look like you got caught in it,” she said. “Storm hit faster than they said it would.”
“Yeah,” Buck said, running a hand through his hair and making it stick up adorably. “We were just passing through. Thought we could beat it.”
“Storm doesn’t care what you think,” the waitress said. “You want coffee?”
“Please,” Eddie said fervently.
She smiled. “You got it, honey.”
They slid into the booth, facing each other. Eddie’s hands were still tingling from the cold, the tips of his ears burning.
“Your nose is red,” Buck observed. “Like Rudolph. It’s kinda cute.”
Eddie blinked.
His brain did something unpleasantly similar to the slush on the road.
“Shut up,” he said weakly.
Buck grinned, completely at ease, oblivious to the way his words had just casually hurled Eddie’s internal equilibrium off a cliff.
They ordered food—soup and grilled cheese for Eddie, a burger and fries for Buck, because some things never changed—and watched the snow thicken outside.
“Think we can get back on the road after this?” Buck asked, chewing thoughtfully on a fry.
Eddie squinted at the parking lot. The cars were already wearing little hats of snow. The road was disappearing. The sky and ground were starting to blend together.
A plow rumbled past, sending up an arc of white.
“Not a chance,” he said. “We’re stuck.”
Buck’s eyes widened. “Like… stuck stuck?”
“Storm like this?” Eddie shook his head. “Even if the highway’s open, it’s not worth it. We’ll end up in a ditch.”
Buck made a face. “Maddie is going to kill us.”
“We’re not telling Maddie,” Eddie said. “We’re telling Maddie we made a responsible decision and stopped.”
“Which is what she would want us to do,” Buck said quickly. “This is Maddie-approved, actually.”
The waitress dropped off their coffee, along with two steaming mugs of hot cocoa “for the weather.” Buck’s entire face lit up.
“Okay, I forgive the snow,” he said, wrapping both hands around the mug. “This is worth it.”
Eddie snorted into his coffee.
Because of course Buck looked like an ad for holiday joy right now, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, fingers wrapped around a cup like the warmth was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Of course Eddie’s heart took one look at that and decided to start composing sonnets.
Terrible, rhyming sonnets.
“We should probably find a place to stay,” Eddie said, more to distract himself than anything else. “Before everything fills up.”
Buck nodded, pulling out his phone. “On it. I am now the man who compares motel reviews. Look at me, growth.”
They found a small inn a few blocks away that still had rooms—“Storm special,” the clerk had called it on the phone, which Eddie decided to interpret as “lowered prices” and not “festive death trap.”
By the time they finished eating and paid, the snow was full-on falling. Their footprints filled in almost as soon as they made them on the walk to the inn.
Eddie shoved his hands deep in his pockets, head ducked against the wind.
Beside him, Buck slipped.
It wasn’t dramatic. Just a sudden little skid, his boots losing purchase on a slick patch, his body jolting sideways.
Eddie moved without thinking.
His hand shot out, grabbing Buck’s hand.
Buck’s fingers tightened immediately, gripping back hard.
They stopped, standing there in the swirl of snow, hands clasped between them.
“Whoa,” Buck said, breathless, laughing a little. “Okay. Ice is real. Noted.”
Eddie didn’t answer.
Because his brain had gone very, very quiet.
His hand was wrapped around Buck’s, fingers threaded between his.
Warmth seeped through, even with their skin chilled from the air. Buck’s palm was broad and calloused and fit against his like—like it had been made to.
Oh, Eddie thought, faint and stunned.
Oh.
Not feelings-adjacent.
Not hypotheticals. Not could be or maybe or not reading the label.
Just: I’m in love with him.
The thought landed with less fanfare than he expected.
No thunder. No lightning. Just a quiet click, like something slotting finally into place.
Of course he was.
He had been for a long time.
He was in love with Buck.
His stupid, sunny, complicated best friend who made snack systems and drove him halfway across the country and held his son like he was something precious.
He was in love with him.
And he was standing on a snowy sidewalk in the middle of nowhere holding his hand.
“Hey,” Buck said softly. “You okay?”
Eddie realized he’d been staring at their hands like they were a crime scene.
“Yeah,” he croaked. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Because if you’re having a stroke, I need to know,” Buck said. “I can do the FAST thing now. Face, arms, speech, time—”
“I’m not having a stroke,” Eddie cut in.
“Okay, but your face—”
“Buck,” Eddie said, fighting a hysterical laugh. “I’m fine.”
Buck searched his expression for another long beat, snow catching in his eyelashes.
“Okay,” he said eventually. “Then can we keep holding hands for, like, three more seconds? Because I’m pretty sure that sidewalk is actively trying to murder me.”
Eddie’s heart did a full somersault.
He should let go.
He should.
Friends didn’t hold hands like this.
Friends didn’t stand in the snow and feel their lungs expand around a love they’d been refusing to name.
He squeezed Buck’s hand instead.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I got you.”
Buck’s smile started small and then bloomed, bright and ridiculous and so full of joy Eddie felt it in his bones.
“Come on, Rudolph,” Buck said, tugging him forward. “Let’s go see how many weird nutcracker decorations this inn has.”
“Rude,” Eddie muttered, but let himself be pulled.
They didn’t let go until they were under the inn’s awning.
The inn, mercifully, had multiple rooms.
Unfortunately, it had multiple rooms… booked.
“I’m really sorry,” the woman at the front desk said, looking genuinely regretful behind her glasses. “We just had a youth choir check in right before you. I’ve got one room left.”
Eddie didn’t even bother asking.
“Let me guess,” he said. “One bed?”
“One queen,” she said, wincing. “I can give you extra blankets if you want to make a little bed on the floor?”
Buck looked at Eddie, snow still melting in his hair, cheeks flushed.
Eddie thought about Buck on the floor. Thought about his lanky body curled up on rough carpet, the way his back would complain about it in the morning, the way he’d pretend it didn’t hurt.
He thought about holding his hand in the snow.
“We’ll take the room,” Eddie heard himself say. “We’ll manage.”
The woman brightened. “Great! I’ll throw in some cocoa packets for you. Storm special.”
Storm special. Right.
They climbed the creaky stairs to their room, which was small but charming—quilted bedspread, floral curtains, a little fake tree in the corner with twinkling lights.
Eddie shut the door behind them and leaned back against it, exhaling slowly.
Buck stood in the middle of the room, taking it in. “Wow,” he said. “The bed situation is getting progressively more romantic.”
“Don’t say that,” Eddie said immediately.
Buck laughed. “What? I’m just saying. Last night it was a king in questionable floral. Tonight it’s a queen. If the pattern continues, tomorrow is definitely going to be a heart-shaped waterbed.”
Eddie snorted, despite himself.
“You wanna shower first?” Buck asked. “Warm up? I can go second.”
“You go,” Eddie said quickly. “You’re more soaked.”
He absolutely did not notice the way Buck’s t-shirt clung to his shoulders.
Not even a little.
Buck saluted, grabbed his bag, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Eddie sat on the edge of the bed and dropped his face into his hands.
Okay.
So.
He was in love with Buck.
Cool.
Cool, cool, cool.
That was… new. Except it wasn’t. Not really. It just had a name now.
He’d finally looked at the label on the box and it said: Congratulations, idiot, you’re in love with your best friend.
He’d been in more complicated situations in his life—war zones, collapsing buildings, fatherhood—but his brain was ranking this distressingly high on the panic scale.
Because what was he supposed to do with that?
Tell Buck? On a road trip? In a snowstorm? Right before Christmas with his family?
Great idea. Zero chance of emotional catastrophe.
Keep it to himself? Pretend he hadn’t noticed? Go back to L.A. and slide into whatever version of normal was left for them now that they’d shared motels and snowstorms and hand-holding?
Also a great idea. Absolutely not a recipe for self-destruction.
The bathroom door opened, releasing a rush of steam and the smell of Buck’s soap.
Eddie’s brain, already struggling, chose this moment to short-circuit.
Because Buck stepped out in flannel pajama pants and a soft long-sleeve shirt, toweling his hair dry, cheeks pink from heat.
“Your turn,” he said brightly. “Also, I think I saw my life flash before my eyes when that shower head sputtered. But in, like, a cozy way.”
Eddie stood up on legs that felt suspiciously like cooked spaghetti. “Great,” he said, voice an octave lower than usual.
He locked himself in the bathroom and stared at his reflection, water dripping from the showerhead in an uneven rhythm behind him.
“Get it together,” he told himself.
His reflection, rudely, did not offer solutions.
When he came out, hair damp, wearing his own flannel pants and t-shirt, Buck was sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, scrolling through his phone. The fake tree lights cast a soft glow across his face.
“You good?” Buck asked, looking up.
Eddie swallowed. “Yeah.”
Buck patted the bed beside him. “Come on. I found a channel playing the worst Christmas movies known to man. It’s like a gift.”
Eddie crossed the room and sat down gingerly on his side of the bed.
Their shoulders brushed.
They watched two and a half Christmas movies, all of which involved a big-city woman rediscovering the meaning of love through a small-town man who liked flannel. Buck made increasingly savage commentary about the lack of fire safety in their holiday décor.
“You can’t put candles that close to a tree,” he said, scandalized. “It’s just wrong.”
At some point, Buck yawned and slid down so he was lying on his side, facing Eddie. “I’m wiped,” he admitted. “Are you ready to call it?”
Eddie’s brain suggested: No, actually, let’s stay awake and stare at you all night like a creep.
His mouth, mercifully, went with, “Yeah.”
They turned off the TV, leaving only the glow of the little tree and the snow-muted light from the window.
Eddie lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He could feel the heat of Buck’s body beside him, the dip of the mattress, the soft brush of fabric every time one of them shifted.
“Eddie?” Buck’s voice came in the dark, soft and uncertain.
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something?”
Eddie swallowed. “Sure.”
“Why did you come with me?” Buck asked.
Eddie blinked.
Because I can’t stand the thought of you making this drive alone.
Because the house feels too empty without you.
Because I missed you more than I was willing to admit even to myself.
He let out a slow breath.
“Because you were gonna go by yourself,” he said instead. “And you didn’t want to. And I didn’t want you to.”
“That’s it?” Buck asked, a small smile in his voice. “You just… decided to spend your holidays trapped in a car with me because I didn’t want to be alone?”
“Is that not enough?” Eddie asked defensively.
Buck was quiet for a long moment.
“No,” he said finally. “It is. It’s more than enough. I just… I didn’t want to assume.”
“Assume what?” Eddie asked, even though part of him already knew.
“That you wanted to be with me,” Buck said.
The words landed like a stone in Eddie’s chest.
He turned his head, staring at the outline of Buck’s face in the dim light.
“I always want to be with you,” Eddie said before he could stop himself.
Buck’s breath caught.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with unsaid things.
Eddie’s heart hammered.
“Yeah?” Buck whispered.
“Yeah,” Eddie said, voice low and rough. “You’re— you’re my best friend, Buck.”
“Oh,” Buck said, and Eddie could hear the shape of the smile even if he couldn’t see it fully. “Okay.”
It wasn’t enough. It was too much.
Eddie lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling like he was balanced on the edge of something vast.
His hand moved before his brain did.
Slowly, carefully, he let it drift across the space between them until it brushed Buck’s.
Buck inhaled sharply.
Eddie almost yanked his back.
Then Buck’s fingers curled, catching his, holding on.
They lay there, facing opposite directions, hands clasped between them.
Eddie could feel Buck’s pulse, quick and strong.
This was insane.
Holding hands in the snow was one thing. Survival. Stability.
Holding hands in bed, in the quiet glow of a fake Christmas tree, for no reason except that he wanted to?
That was something else.
“Are you okay?” Eddie whispered, because the words had become a habit, a reflex.
Buck laughed softly. “You gotta stop asking me that,” he said. “I’m gonna start thinking you’re worried.”
“I am worried,” Eddie said.
“About what?”
Eddie swallowed.
About losing this. About messing it up. About finally saying the thing that changes everything.
“About you driving three days in a row after eating your body weight in diner pie,” he said instead.
Buck squeezed his hand, hard.
“Liar,” he said, not unkindly.
They drifted toward sleep like that, fingers entwined, breaths slowly syncing.
Somewhere, as he hovered on the edge of dreaming, Eddie thought: Maybe this is enough. Maybe I can love him like this. Quietly. Next to him. Holding his hand in the dark.
But then Buck shifted closer, leg brushing Eddie’s, and Eddie’s body lit up like the tree in his living room, and he knew—knew in his bones—that loving him in the dark would never be enough.
They made it to Hershey the next afternoon, the storm having moved on, leaving the world frosted and glittering.
Buck grew increasingly restless the closer they got, his usual chatter tapering off, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on his knee.
“You good?” Eddie asked as they rolled down familiar streets, passing chocolate-themed streetlamps and signs.
Buck let out a breath. “Yeah. Just… you know. Family stuff.”
Eddie did know.
“I’m not gonna leave you,” he said quietly.
Buck glanced over, eyes wide.
“I mean,” Eddie added quickly, “I’ll give you space with them, obviously, but— I’m here. Okay? Whatever you need.”
Buck’s throat worked. “Okay.”
They pulled up in front of Buck's parents house, where a giant inflatable snowman was waging war with a giant inflatable reindeer on the lawn.
Before they could get out of the car, Buck turned to him.
“Hey,” he said. “Before we go in… can I ask you one more thing?”
Eddie’s stomach dropped. “Yeah.”
“If we—if I—” Buck blew out a breath. “This trip, it’s been… different. Good different. And I just…” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “If I’m reading this wrong, tell me now, okay? Because I really don’t want to screw this up, but if I don’t say something, I’m gonna lose my mind.”
Eddie’s heart stopped.
“This?” he repeated, voice barely a whisper.
“Us,” Buck said. “You coming with me, the bed thing, the hand thing—” He swallowed. “Eddie, I’ve been in love with you for a long time, and I’m trying really hard not to make your life harder than it already is, but if there’s even a chance you—”
Eddie kissed him.
It was not graceful.
He leaned across the center console like a man possessed, hand coming up to cup Buck’s jaw, and pressed his mouth to his.
Buck made a soft, startled sound, then melted into it, his free hand tangling in Eddie’s shirt, pulling him closer.
The world shrank down to the press of lips, the warmth of Buck’s breath, the faint taste of peppermint coffee.
Eddie’s brain, for once, was blessedly silent.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
Buck’s eyes were huge.
“Okay,” he said faintly. “That… answers that.”
Eddie huffed out a shaky laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Sorry, I just— you were talking, and I thought, if I let myself overthink this, I’m gonna end up proposing a legally binding hand-holding contract instead of just—”
“Hey.” Buck’s hand was still fisted in his shirt. He tugged, gently. “I’m not complaining.”
Eddie swallowed, emotions crowding his chest. “I’m in love with you,” he said, the words coming easier now that they’d already crossed one line. “Have been for a while. I just… didn’t want to look at it.”
Buck’s smile was blinding. “Well,” he said, “good news. I’m very look-at-able.”
Eddie groaned. “Don’t ruin this.”
“I’m sorry,” Buck said, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s a condition. Chronic deflection by humor. You should get me checked out. Maybe see a specialist. A kissing specialist.”
Eddie kissed him again, just to shut him up.
This one was slower, softer, their foreheads resting together when they broke apart.
Buck’s eyes were wet.
“Eddie Diaz,” he whispered. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
“Take me inside,” Eddie said, then realized how that sounded. “To meet your family. For Christmas. That’s— that’s what I meant.”
Buck laughed, delighted and bright, and grabbed his hand.
“Come on,” he said, squeezing tight. “Let’s go.”
They got out of the car together.
The snow crunched under their boots. The air smelled like cold and distant cocoa. Inside, behind the curtains, shadows moved—Maddie, baby Han, Chimney Jee-Yun bouncing in excitement.
Eddie hesitated on the porch, nerves flaring.
Buck squeezed his hand again.
“Are you ready?” Buck asked.
Eddie looked at him—really looked at him, at the man he’d driven across the country with, shared beds with, held hands with in storms and in the dark.
At the man he loved.
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “I’m ready.”
Buck smiled, eyes bright, and leaned in to press a quick, soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before knocking.
The door flew open almost immediately, light and warmth and the sound of Maddie’s voice spilling out.
Eddie stepped inside, Buck’s hand still wrapped firmly around his.
The road they’d taken to get here stretched back behind them—miles of highway and cheap motels and snow and laughter and quiet revelations.
The road ahead was less clear.
But for the first time in a long time, Eddie wasn’t afraid of that.
Because wherever it led, he wasn’t walking it alone anymore.
He had Buck.
And, judging by the way Buck’s fingers tightened around his at the sight of his family waiting, Buck had him too.