Chapter Text
The porch light flickered when the bulb warmed up—she kept forgetting to replace it. Maddie stood at the sink, rinsing the last of Jee-Yun’s sippy cups, absently humming to whatever indie playlist was still echoing from the phone propped on the counter. The house was still, settled. Chimney was on shift. Jee was asleep, finally. And for the first time in what felt like days, Maddie felt like her body belonged to her again.
The cool January air crept in through the cracked kitchen window—crisp and faintly sweet, tinged with that strange mix of jasmine and traffic fumes that somehow always meant Los Angeles. She dried her hands. Checked her phone. No new messages. The knock came softly. Just once.
She turned, a furrow already forming between her brows. It was too late for deliveries, and anyone who knew them knew to text first. For a moment, her body tensed—not fear, exactly, but readiness. Old instincts. They didn’t leave easy. She padded barefoot to the door, switching on the brighter porch light as she unlocked it. The bulb buzzed overhead. And there was someone standing there. A young man. Early twenties, maybe. Tall. Slim. Something about him struck her as familiar and completely unknown all at once.
He stared at her.
“Can I help you?” she asked, keeping her voice gentle.
He didn’t answer at first. Just looked at her. There was something in his eyes—sharp, unreadable, barely held in check. Grief, maybe. Or awe. Or both.
“Are you… Maddie Buckley?”
The name came out like a question he already knew the answer to. She blinked. “Yes,” she said cautiously, eyebrows lifting slightly.
He didn’t offer a name. Didn’t smile. Just said, in a quiet, steady voice:
“I was born in 2004. In Connecticut.”
Her breath caught. Not all the way. But enough.
“I was left at a fire station when I was about six weeks old. There was a letter with my name, my birthdate, some medical history.”
Her fingers curled slightly against the doorframe.
“In 2019, I took a DNA test. And I got a match. To you.”
The air thickened. Not louder. Just… heavier. She couldn’t hear the music anymore. Couldn’t feel the tile under her feet.
“I’ve been in LA for a few weeks,” he said. “Working up the nerve to knock on your door.”
He looked down then, briefly. Then up again.
“I think—” A pause. A breath. A decision.
“I know you’re my mother.”
And just like that, the world tilted.
Maddie stared at him.
At the face that, now that she was really looking, mirrored every part of her memory she’d locked away. Eyes she knew weren’t hers. A jawline that pulled tight in the exact same way when trying not to feel too much. A hesitation that echoed her own. For a second, she couldn’t breathe.
Then she stepped back, just slightly—enough for the porch light to reach farther, enough for the space between them to fold inward.
She didn’t speak.
Not yet.
Because she knew.
She opened her mouth to speak. To say I don’t understand, or How did you find me?, or even Is this real?—but nothing came out. The words collapsed under the weight of everything crashing through her mind. She blinked quickly, trying to hold back the tears already prickling at the corners of her eyes. Breathed in deep. Tried to ground herself. Her voice, when it returned, was barely a thread.
“Do you…” She steadied herself. “Do you want to come inside?”
He looked startled by the offer.
Hesitated.
Like he hadn’t planned for this part. Like maybe he'd rehearsed everything up to the knock but hadn't imagined what might come after. But after a long beat, he nodded.
Quiet. Wordless.
She stepped back, giving him room, and watched as he crossed the threshold. He moved like someone unsure if he belonged—eyes scanning the entryway, the modest living room, the toys half-tucked under the console table. The porch light behind him caught against his profile, casting shadows that somehow made everything sharper.
Maddie stood still.
Watching.
And then she saw it.
The eyes.
Buck’s eyes.
That same piercing, ice-blue that used to lock onto her when they were kids, when Evan wanted something—really wanted something—and wouldn’t let go until he got it. The same color that, even after everything, she still saw first when she pictured her brother.
And his hair—
A little shorter, a little messier, but still with that same infuriating curl. Not quite shaggy, not quite neat. Just stubbornly its own thing, no matter how much water or product tried to tame it. Ethan was leaner than Buck. Maybe a little shorter. Slighter in the shoulders. But it didn’t matter.
Like a current rolling in from some long-forgotten shore, the memory came:
She was back in Hershey. Back behind the nurse’s station. And there was Evan—twenty, face scratched up, one arm in a sling, his entire body thrumming with urgency—asking her to run away with him. We can go. Tonight. I don’t want to do this without you. That version of her brother—the desperate, defiant, open-hearted one—flashed through her so vividly it almost hurt.
And now here was this boy—her boy—stepping into her home with that same fire behind his eyes. The same tension in his shoulders. The same flicker of cautious hope, like he didn’t quite believe she’d let him stay.
The resemblance was uncanny.
It was undeniable.
And now he was standing in her home. Not by accident. Not by coincidence. But because he belonged to her. She gestured gently toward the living room. Her voice stayed quiet.
“Go ahead. You can sit if you want.”
He nodded, almost reflexively, and moved to the couch—perched on the edge, like if he sank too deep into the cushions, it might mean he was staying for good. Maddie followed slowly, moving to the armchair just across from him. Not too close. Just enough. She folded her hands in her lap. Unfolded them again.
“Can I get you something?” she offered. “Water? Tea?”
He shook his head once. “I’m good. Thanks.” They sat in silence for a few seconds that stretched and stretched. The hum of the refrigerator. The faint creak of the floor as someone shifted weight. And beneath it, the pulse of something unspoken, pushing against the walls like pressure behind glass. Neither of them quite knew what to say first.
Maddie cleared her throat.
“I’m sure you have… a lot of questions,” she said softly. “And I’ll answer them. I promise. All of them.”
She hesitated.
“But first—before any of that—I need to know just one thing.”
He looked up.
“Are you happy?”
It came out bare. No preamble. No softening. Just the truth, raw and trembling. Ethan blinked. Like maybe he hadn’t expected that to be the first thing out of her mouth. But he didn’t hesitate when he answered.
“I am,” he said. “I mean—foster care was… foster care. Not great, not awful. I got lucky with a placement when I was twelve. Stayed there through high school.”
His voice was quiet, measured, like he was used to giving the short version.
“But I’m okay. I grew up stable. Well-rounded, I think.” A small, almost sheepish shrug. “Top of my class at Yale. I just transferred to UCLA for my last year.”
Maddie let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. He smiled—small, but real. “I’m happy. I promise.” Her shoulders dropped slightly. The relief was instant. Physical. She looked at him again—really looked—and let herself feel it: the steady way he spoke, the self-awareness in his posture, the way his eyes never left hers. There was no bitterness there. No accusation. Just a quiet kind of strength.
“I have a lot to explain,” she said finally. “And I will. All of it. You deserve that.”
Her throat tightened again, but this time she pushed through.
“But before we even get into any of that—I want you to know, without a single doubt… if I could’ve kept you, Ethan—I would’ve.”
She said it like a truth she’d carried for years, folded and tucked away somewhere too fragile to look at. Like it had never stopped being real. Just hidden. The name settled between them for the first time. And in that moment, she wasn’t a stranger.
She was his mother.
He didn’t question it.
Didn’t press her, didn’t look away.
“I believe you,” he said simply.
And somehow, that broke her more than if he hadn’t. Ethan shifted slightly, his fingers brushing the seam of his jeans. He looked down for a moment, not uncomfortable—just reflective.
“I Googled you,” he admitted quietly. “Not long after I got the DNA results back.”
Her breath caught again—brief, sharp. He didn’t say it like an accusation. Just a fact. A timeline. Something inevitable.
“I know what happened. With Doug,” he said. “The articles didn’t leave much room for doubt.”
His voice didn’t shake, but there was something careful in it. Measured.
“I figure that’s probably how the DNA match happened at all. If the police collected your DNA… entered it into a federal database during the investigation…”
He trailed off, like the rest didn’t need saying. Maddie sat there for a long moment, her hands knit tightly together. Then she leaned forward—slowly—resting her forearms against her knees, grounding herself.
“When I found out I was pregnant,” she said, her voice low, steady, “I left.”
His eyes flicked up. She didn’t shy away from them.
“I left Boston. Left Doug. Took nothing with me except what I needed to disappear. I managed to keep both of us safe for almost nine months.”
The porch light still glowed faintly behind the front curtains. A soft hum pulsed through the quiet.
“But he was getting close again,” she continued. “Too close. I didn’t think there was a true way out—not a permanent one. Not one that didn’t put you in danger.”
She swallowed.
“So… I did the only thing I could think of to keep you safe.”
The words came with a slow ache. Like they’d been locked in her chest for two decades, wearing down the inside of her ribs.
“I left you. Somewhere I knew you’d be found. Somewhere I knew someone would protect you if I couldn’t.”
Her voice dropped even quieter.
“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
She stayed leaned forward, hands clasped together, knuckles paling.
“When I came back…” Her voice was thinner now. “After I left you.”
She didn’t say his name again. Couldn’t—not just yet.
“It took me fifteen years to try running a second time. Fifteen years to find enough courage—or maybe desperation—to try and leave Doug again.”
She shook her head slowly.
“And by then, he wasn’t taking chances anymore.”
Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. She wouldn’t—not yet.
“I think that’s why he snapped the way he did. Why it was so fast. So brutal. The kidnapping, the violence, all of it…”
Her throat tightened again, and she sat back just slightly, not looking at Ethan now—but not avoiding him either.
“He wasn’t going to let me leave him a second time.”
The words sat between them like coals. Hot, slow-burning. She drew in a shallow breath, barely a tremble behind it.
“That was what he’d been waiting for. What he thought I owed him. All those years I stayed after I came back… he thought I understood my place.”
Her voice cracked, just barely. “And when I didn’t—when I ran again—he made sure I’d pay for it.” She looked at Ethan now. Really looked. There was something unreadable in his face. Not cold. Not angry. But deep. Still. Like he was absorbing every word with care he didn’t know he had in him.
“I didn't want that life for you, too,” she said.
Quiet. Final.
Ethan didn’t respond right away. Just nodded, slowly. Swallowed. His jaw shifted—like he was holding something in his throat, something unspeakable and not meant to be spoken anyway. Then he sniffed once and lifted a hand to brush the corner of his eye. No fanfare. No apology. He cleared his throat softly.
And shifted the conversation.
His eyes drifted to the coffee table, to the toys haphazardly scattered there. A small stuffed otter. A set of stacking cups with two pieces missing. He glanced past it, toward the end table, where an empty sippy cup sat forgotten.
He gestured gently.
“You have kids?”
Maddie blinked. The question felt like a breeze against the flame of everything they’d just said.
But she nodded.
“I do,” she said softly. “A daughter. Jee-Yun.”
She smiled faintly at the sound of her daughter’s name. Then her hand moved instinctively toward her belly, brushing across the soft fabric of her shirt.
“And… I’m six months along with another.”
He glanced up.
She offered a small, almost shy smile.
“A boy.”
Ethan looked at her for a moment, like he was processing not just the words, but the truth of them—the warmth in her tone, the ease, the life that had kept going even without him. And then he smiled, too.
Sad.
Genuine.
Full of something that wasn’t quite pain, but still aching.
“I’m glad,” he said. “I’m glad you were able to have a good life.”
Maddie’s breath caught again—different this time. Softer. There was something in his voice that made her want to both hug him and weep. But she didn’t do either.
She just nodded.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Ethan shifted slightly, his hands resting against the edge of his knees. He cleared his throat once, then again, as though trying to find the right pitch to speak at.
“I—um.”
He stopped.
Tried again.
“I know you don’t have to. I mean—you probably have a lot going on right now, and I wouldn’t want to…” He trailed off, already shrinking inward.
“But—if it’s okay—I’d like to keep in touch.”
He wasn’t looking at her. Just stared hard at the floorboards, his shoulders creeping up toward his ears. Maddie caught the way his ears had flushed bright red. Her own did that too. So did Buck’s. Always had.
It hit her then: this wasn’t just something familiar. This was genetic. She swallowed back the swell of emotion and reached her hand out.
“Give me your phone.”
His eyes snapped up, startled. But he obeyed, pulling it from his pocket and handing it over. She typed her number in. Just her first name. She saved it, then passed the phone back.
“I’ll need a few days,” she said, voice low but steady. “To process this. To get everything out in the open.”
He nodded quickly, already apologizing with his posture.
“But,” she continued, “I want this. I do.”
She looked at him—really looked.
“I think I might actually be able to do right by you this time.”
Ethan’s lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t quite trust the words to come out right. Eventually, he just nodded again.
“You already did,” he said.
Still, she added, quietly but firmly, “I’d like to get to know you.” His glance shifted toward the window. It was fully dark now—streetlight glow pooling at the edge of the sidewalk.
“I should probably get going,” he murmured.
Maddie stood with him, walked with him to the front door. He stepped outside, and she followed just to the edge of the porch. But before he could head down the steps, she stopped him.
“Wait.”
He turned back.
She hesitated.
“Can I… hug you?”
He stilled.
Then, after a beat, nodded. She stepped forward slowly and wrapped her arms around him. Careful not to hold on too tight. Careful not to make it more than he could give.
But he let her.
And she closed her eyes.
Just for a moment.
One tear slid down her cheek, catching in the collar of her shirt.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He didn’t respond.
He didn’t need to.
A second later, he turned, stepped down into the soft glow of the night, and walked off into the dark. And Maddie stood alone on the porch, the door still open behind her, her hands gently folded across her ribs—
holding the shape of him.
The front door creaked open at exactly 12:17 a.m. Chimney exhaled as he stepped inside, dropping his turnout bag just past the threshold with a low grunt. The smell of smoke clung to him—clothes, hair, even skin—and it wasn’t the kind that rinsed off in one go.
He’d gotten stuck at a structure fire downtown—warehouse-sized, full of too much cardboard and not enough ventilation. The relief crew hadn’t shown until almost eleven, and by the time he’d handed over reports and cleaned up, midnight had already come and gone. He expected the house to be dark. But the living room light was still on.
And Maddie was awake.
She sat curled into the far corner of the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, a half-full glass of Moscato cradled in her hand. Her eyes flicked up as he stepped into view.
“You’re home late,” she said.
“Structure fire,” he replied, kicking off his boots. “Shift change got stalled.”
She nodded, like she already knew. Like she hadn’t just been sitting here waiting—but waiting.
“You’re drinking Moscato,” he said lightly, eyeing the glass.
“I’m not drunk.”
“No, but that’s your thinking drink.”
She said nothing.
He stepped farther into the room, frowning slightly at the unease radiating off her like static. She was too still. Too composed. That kind of calm never came without effort.
“I have a secret,” she said quietly. “One I’ve kept from everyone.”
He paused.
Then blinked. “Okay…”
“And I can’t keep it anymore.”
That made him pause again, more deeply this time. He raised an eyebrow. “Do I need to be sitting down for this?”
“I think you need to shower first.”
He squinted. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
She stood up, crossed to the kitchen, and disappeared around the corner.
Chimney took the hint.
Fifteen minutes later, clean and dressed in an old T-shirt and sweats, he returned to the living room and found Maddie already seated again. This time, she was holding out a glass of whiskey. Iced. His favorite.
“Okay,” he said slowly, taking it from her. “So this is officially a big secret.”
She didn’t smile. Didn’t soften. He sat down across from her, heart quietly picking up its pace.
“Is this a… Daniel-level secret?”
Her eyes flicked toward him.
“It’s worse.”
And just like that, the room quieted.
“I haven’t told anyone,” she said. “Not Evan. Not my parents. No one.”
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t breathe.
She set her wine glass down on the end table. Fingers trembling just slightly.
“When I left Doug in 2019,” she said, “that wasn’t the first time.”
Chimney’s eyebrows pulled together. “What do you mean?”
“The first time,” she said, voice steadying now, “was in 2004. I was twenty. I was pregnant.”
That silenced him.
Flat-out.
Pregnant.
She let the words hang there, heavy and undeniable.
“Jee-Yun…” she whispered. “She’s not my first child.”
Chimney sat very still.
Whiskey in hand. Brain stuck in the slow-motion collision of what and how and why didn’t you tell me.
And he said nothing.
Because she wasn’t finished.
He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t need to.
The silence spoke for him—shock, disbelief, that strange slow-burning stillness when something turns out to be far bigger than you imagined.
Maddie didn’t look away.
“I left Doug,” she said. “Not long after we moved to Boston. I was pregnant. He didn’t know.”
Her voice stayed calm. Not detached—but controlled. Like every word had been rehearsed in her head for years and now she was finally, painfully, letting them go.
“I fled to Connecticut. Used a fake name. I had help—from a friend, someone from nursing school. I kept off Doug’s radar for almost a year.”
Chimney felt the whiskey settle in his chest, sharp and slow.
“I gave birth in October,” she continued. “A boy.”
She said that with something like awe and devastation braided together—like even now, after everything, the words still didn’t feel real.
“I kept him for six weeks. Just me and him. I thought maybe I could figure it out.”
Her eyes were glassy now, but she didn’t cry. Not yet.
“But then Doug started getting close. My friend warned me—said he’d been asking around. Looking for me. And I couldn’t… I couldn’t let Doug find out I had a child.”
Her voice caught just slightly.
“I couldn’t let him take him.”
She looked at Chimney then. Really looked.
“So I left him. At a fire station. With a letter. Birthdate, medical info. First name.”
Chimney still couldn’t find his voice.
“You have a son,” he said, barely more than a whisper.
“I had a son,” she corrected, softly. “And then I gave him up.”
The words were brutal in their gentleness.
“I went back to Doug,” she added, before he could ask. “It was easier to survive than keep running. So I did. I shut everything down. Pretended it had never happened.”
“But it did happen,” Chimney said, finally finding breath again.
She nodded.
“And now… now he found me.”
Chimney blinked.
“What?”
She took a shaky breath.
“He showed up at the door tonight.”
Chimney’s stomach dropped.
“You’re serious.”
“I didn’t know it was him until he said it. But the second he did…” She shook her head slowly. “I knew.”
“And?” Chimney asked, hoarsely.
“He’s… incredible,” she said, voice full of quiet awe. “He’s kind. Thoughtful. Smart.”
Chimney’s hand curled tighter around the glass. “Does Buck know?” She shook her head. “Not yet.”
Then, after a beat—
“But I think he needs to.”
Maddie leaned forward, her elbows on her knees now, both hands wrapped tight around the stem of her wine glass.
“I don’t know how to tell him,” she admitted. “Buck.”
Chimney set his whiskey down slowly, gently, as if not to disturb the weight in the room.
“It’s another lie,” she said. “Another thing I kept from him.”
Her voice cracked, just slightly. “And after everything with Daniel…” She didn’t finish the sentence.
She didn’t have to.
Chimney nodded, taking that in. Sitting with it. Then he leaned forward, matching her posture, his tone soft but certain.
“This isn’t like Daniel.”
She looked at him.
“Back then,” he said, “you were barely surviving. Every day you were still with Doug was another day you were holding your breath. But this—this was in the beginning of all that. And you were twenty. Running for your life. Trying to protect a baby with no one and nothing.”
Maddie stayed quiet, but her eyes brimmed now, glassy and raw.
“Once Buck hears the whole story… once you explain—really explain—he’ll get it.”
“You think?” she whispered.
“I know.”
He smiled a little, tired but sincere.
“He’ll be himself, sure. Exasperated. Probably confused. A little hurt, yeah.” Chimney tilted his head. “But then he’ll come around. Because that’s what he does. He gets overwhelmed, then he feels everything all at once, and then he finds his footing. That’s Buck.”
Maddie gave the smallest, breathiest laugh. Like it surprised her.
“And,” Chimney added, “I can say with full confidence… he’s definitely still awake.”
Maddie looked up, brows raised.
“He was just leaving the scene when I did. He got back to the house probably fifteen minutes before me.”
She blinked. “So what—you think he’s just sitting there brooding in the dark?”
“No,” Chimney said, grinning now. “I think he’s elbow-deep in a batch of cinnamon bread or frying eggs at one in the morning. You know how he gets when he’s restless.”
Maddie let out another small laugh, this one more genuine, more real.
Chimney watched her carefully.
“You don’t have to do it tonight,” he said gently. “But you can do it. He’ll still be Buck on the other side of this.”
Maddie nodded slowly, eyes distant.
“I hope so.”
“You don’t have to hope,” he said. “You just have to trust him.”
And after a beat, she whispered, “I’m trying.”
The sauce was almost done. Buck stood at the stove, bare feet planted on cool tile, tossing fettuccine into a pan with heavy cream and fresh garlic. Parm was already shredded on the cutting board. Butter melting slow and perfect. Salt in the water. Everything exactly as it should be.
Comfort cooking.
His version of sleeping pills. He had the phone propped up against a container of flour on the counter, Eddie’s face just visible in the dim kitchen lighting. The screen wobbled slightly every time Buck moved.
“You know it’s one in the morning, right?” Eddie said, smirking. Evidently doing a late-night Uber shift.
Buck shrugged. “I was hungry.” Eddie’s brows rose. “You couldn’t just microwave something?”
“I could’ve,” Buck said, tossing the noodles. “But then you wouldn’t be here, watching me make better life choices.”
“Burning butter isn’t a life choice.”
“Rude.”
Eddie laughed, then reached off-screen for a water bottle. “Seriously, though, I’m surprised you’re not passed out. You guys were on that fire for, what, six hours?”
“Yeah,” Buck said, wiping his hands on a towel. “Got back around midnight. I was too wired to sleep.”
Eddie tilted his head. “That… tracks.” Buck was just about to drain the pasta when his phone buzzed. He glanced down, expecting a station group chat or a shift change update.
It wasn’t either.
Chim: We’re on the way over. Maddie has something she needs to tell you. It’s not something that can wait.
Buck frowned.
Eddie caught it. “What?”
“It’s Chim,” Buck said, eyes scanning the message again. “He and Maddie are coming over right now. Says she has something to tell me.”
Eddie’s expression shifted—calm, but alert. “Did he say what it’s about?” Buck shook his head. “No, just that it couldn’t wait.” He looked at the stove absently, then back at the phone.
Eddie leaned forward slightly on his end. “Okay. Could be anything. Maybe it’s about the baby? Maybe they got some test results early?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Buck said, though it didn’t feel quite right. “Or our parents? But Chim said it’s her secret.”
Eddie stayed quiet for a moment, then said, “She wouldn’t bring it to you at one in the morning unless she had to. Whatever it is—it’s probably big.”
“Yeah.” Buck glanced at the sauce. Turned the heat down.
“You want me to stay on?”
Buck shook his head. “Nah. If it’s personal, I should hear it without an audience.” Eddie nodded slowly. “Text me after?”
“Promise.”
They said their goodbyes, and Buck ended the call just as the Alfredo finished thickening. He plated a bowl, added a sprinkle of pepper, and sat at the counter to eat.
He didn’t get far.
There was a soft knock at the door. Buck stood immediately, setting his fork down, and crossed to the entryway. When he opened it, Chimney stood there, half-asleep but steady, Jee curled against his shoulder. Maddie stood beside him, arms crossed tight, sleeves of her sweatshirt clenched in her fingers. Buck’s heart dropped a little at the sight.
“Hey,” he said, stepping aside. “Come in.”
Chim entered first, nodding toward the hallway. “Chris’s old room still good?” Buck nodded. “Didn’t change a thing.” Chim disappeared down the hall with Jee in his arms.
Maddie stepped inside slowly.
Buck shut the door behind her. Turned to face her.
“You know I’m always happy to have guests,” he said gently, “but it’s one-o'clock in the morning, Maddie.”
He paused.
His voice lowered.
“Is it the baby? Our parents? What’s wrong?”
Maddie’s eyes flicked up to meet his. And for a moment, she couldn’t speak. Maddie didn’t move right away. She stood just inside the door, arms folded tight across her chest, her fingers still picking at the sleeve hem of her sweatshirt.
“I have a secret,” she said, her voice low, almost hollow. “One I’ve never told a single soul.”
Buck blinked.
Okay.
“I kept it buried for a long time,” she continued. “And I thought I could leave it there, but I can’t. Not anymore.”
Her eyes met his—uncertain, glassy, pleading.
“I know how you get,” she said. “I know you’re going to feel a lot, and fast, and it’s going to be big. But I just need you to listen first. Let me explain. Then you can decide how you feel.”
Buck’s mouth opened. Closed. Then he nodded slowly. “Okay.”
She exhaled.
“And I know I messed up before,” she added quickly, “not telling you about Daniel. But this is different, Buck. I didn’t keep this from you to protect myself.”
Buck stepped aside, motioned toward the kitchen. “Come on.” They walked together in silence. The Alfredo sat cooling on the counter, untouched. Maddie glanced at it like she wanted to comment, then thought better of it. Buck hopped up onto the kitchen counter, the edge of the tile pressing into the backs of his legs. Arms crossed. Eyes on her.
Maddie stayed standing.
And then she began.
It didn’t come out in one neat, rehearsed narrative. It came in waves.
Stops. Starts. Rewinds. Tangents.
She told him about Boston. About the beginning of the end. The first time Doug stopped being charming and started being dangerous. How fast it spiraled. The moment it became clear she had to get out. She told him about the test. Two lines. No joy. Just dread.
And then the plan—if you could even call it that. A burner phone. A bag. A friend from nursing school who helped her vanish into Connecticut under a name that wasn’t hers.
She talked about sleeping on a lumpy mattress in a second-floor walk-up. Working at a grocery store. Keeping her head down. Learning how to breathe like someone wasn’t looking for her. Buck didn’t say a word.
He couldn’t.
He sat there on the edge of the counter, heart in his throat, hands gripping the tile beside his thighs to stay grounded. Maddie’s voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. Like she was telling him about a patient from a call, not herself.
But it was her.
It was his sister.
And every word was a cut. She said the pregnancy wasn’t something she wanted. Said she hated herself for feeling that way, but couldn’t stop it. That she resented it. The weight of it. The reminder of what had been done to her and who she had once trusted.
And then—
She told him about the labor. Early. Painful. Unplanned. The baby was born in late October. She didn’t say the name.
Didn’t need to.
She just said he came early. And he was small. And she held him.
And then—
Then everything changed.
Buck didn’t breathe for a second. Because she said the second she looked into his eyes, she knew. Knew he wasn’t Doug. Wasn’t the past. Wasn’t a mistake.
He was hers.
And she loved him.
But it didn’t matter. Because within weeks, she got a call.
Doug was looking again.
And the only thing she could think to do—the only thing that felt like safety—was to give him up. A fire station. A letter. Medical info. Birthdate. First name.
That was it.
Then she went back to Boston.
Back to Doug.
Back into the cage.
And for twenty-one years, she never told a soul.
Not until now.
Not until tonight.
Buck stared at her.
His stomach ached.
His chest burned.
And yet… he didn’t move.
Not yet.
Not even as her voice finally broke.
“I know I should’ve told you,” she whispered. “But I didn’t know how.”
The silence after her words felt almost physical. Heavy in the air. Dense in his lungs. Buck stayed still on the counter, but everything in him was moving. Firing. Spinning.
A baby.
His sister had a baby. Gave him up. Kept it buried for almost twenty years. And now—now he was supposed to hold all of that in his hands and figure out what to do with it.
He tried to speak.
His throat was tight. His mouth dry.
“I—” he started, and then stopped.
His eyes blinked hard, blinking again.
“Wow, Maddie,” he finally said, his voice hoarse. “Just—wow.”
It wasn’t angry.
It wasn’t judgment.
It was just… too much. Too big to name. She nodded once. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t backtrack.
“Tonight,” she said quietly. “The boy—he came to my door.”
Buck’s gaze snapped up to her again.
“He’s here,” she added. “In L.A. He’s a student at UCLA. He’s known for a while, I guess. Been working up the nerve to come.”
She let out a shaky breath.
“And he did. A few hours ago.”
Which brought them here. To this kitchen. To this moment. Buck felt his chest squeeze. A breath caught somewhere deep. His vision went glassy at the edges, and his fingers curled into the tile.
“You…” he whispered. “You had a baby?”
Maddie’s eyes welled. She nodded.
And that was it.
That was all it took. He slipped off the counter without another word and crossed the room in two steps. Wrapped his arms around her—tight, firm, anchoring. Like he was holding on for both of them. She let out a soft, broken sound and clutched him back. And Buck, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, just held her. He didn’t know what any of it meant yet. But this—this part he could do.
The coffee had long gone cold in Buck’s mug, but he kept sipping it anyway. It gave his hands something to do. He sat on the couch, legs drawn up, Chim lounging nearby in the armchair with a quiet kind of stillness he rarely wore. Maddie sat across from them, curled into the corner of the loveseat. She held her cup like it was anchoring her. No one had touched the lights; the only glow came from the kitchen, casting soft shadows across the room.
“So,” Buck said quietly. “Tell me about him.”
Maddie looked up, blinking once like she hadn’t expected the question—but of course she had.
“What do you want to know?”
Buck shrugged, the motion loose, tired. “Whatever you can.” She nodded. Took a breath.
“He grew up in foster care. No formal adoption, but… he said he found a stable placement at twelve. Stayed there through high school.”
Buck glanced down at the rim of his mug, throat tight.
“He’s… brilliant,” Maddie continued, voice steadier now. “Said he went to Yale. Transferred to UCLA recently.”
Chim’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Yale?”
“Yeah.” Her tone softened with something close to wonder. “Said it so casually, too. Like it was just another line in his story.”
She paused for a moment, then glanced at Buck.
“And he looks like you.”
Buck blinked. “What?”
“I mean it,” she said. “Same eyes. Same curl in his hair. His build’s different—he’s leaner—but… there’s no mistaking it. I saw you in him instantly.”
Buck stayed quiet.
There was a weight in that. One he couldn’t put into words, but felt settling somewhere deep. Maddie held his gaze. “He’s got the Buckley in him. Clear as day.” Buck huffed a disbelieving breath. “Come on. He’s Doug’s kid.”
“I’m serious, Buck. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Okay, but I feel like I’d have to see it to—”
Before he could finish, Maddie was already unlocking her phone. “I looked him up. I still know the name I gave him.” She tapped quickly, then turned the screen toward them. It was an Instagram profile. Private, but not scrubbed. Just quiet. A few public photos left visible—older, but enough.
The most recent one was a lakeside shot. Late afternoon sun casting golden edges across a sharp jawline and unmistakably blue eyes. His posture leaned, casual. Smile a little crooked. Hair curled in that stubborn, Buckley way that never quite listened to gravity.
Buck stared.
All the air left his lungs. Chim leaned forward, frowning faintly. “Damn. That’s… yeah.” Buck blinked. “He really looks like me?”
“You’re looking at him,” Maddie said, quiet but firm.
Buck swallowed, eyes still on the photo.
“That’s wild.”
“It’s more than wild,” Maddie murmured. “It’s undeniable.”
He didn’t argue.
Because now, he couldn’t.
Buck finally set his mug down on the coffee table. There was no point pretending it still had warmth to offer. He leaned back against the couch cushion, arms crossed loosely, gaze still lingering somewhere in the space Maddie’s phone had just occupied. After a moment, he asked, “So… what are you gonna tell Mom and Dad?” Maddie snorted—quiet, but unmistakable.
“I’m not.”
Buck raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious.”
She didn’t even hesitate. Just sipped her now-cold coffee like she’d already made peace with it.
“I’m not volunteering anything unless they decide to show up in LA again and catch me off guard with a brunch ambush.”
Chim let out a half-laugh from the armchair. “That tracks.”
“They don’t need to know,” Maddie added, her tone sharper now. “Not unless he wants them to. And honestly? I don’t think I trust them with this.”
Buck nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward—not in amusement, exactly. Just… understanding.
“Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”
He didn’t push her on it. Didn’t need to. Some truths weren’t for everyone. And this one had already lived in the dark long enough. Buck rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his thoughts still a step or two behind the weight of everything Maddie had said. He looked over at her again, brow creasing.
“So… are we keeping this a secret?”
Maddie looked up.
“I mean, I was on the phone with Eddie when Chim texted me,” Buck said, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. “And you know he’s gonna have questions.”
Chim gave a low, knowing hum from the armchair. “Yeah, that man can sniff out an untold story like smoke.” Maddie exhaled through her nose—not in frustration, more like something resigned finally letting go.
“No,” she said, firm but quiet. “We’re not keeping this a secret.”
She looked down at the rim of her cup, then back up again.
“I’ve had this locked inside for too long. I’m tired of burying it. It’s time to let it breathe.”
Buck watched her carefully.
She meant it.
This wasn’t just something she was confessing. It was something she was releasing. And even though there were still a hundred questions spinning in his head—about this kid, about what came next—he found himself nodding.
“Okay,” he said.
No more secrets.
Not this time.
He’d typed the message out on Day One.
Deleted it.
Typed it again on Day Two.
Deleted that one too.
Now it was Day Three, and his thumbs hovered over the screen like they had a mind of their own. A few days, she’d said. Which probably meant two. That was usually what people meant when they said a few. But Ethan figured giving her three felt like good-faith effort. Extra credit, or something. Still, the silence had been deafening. Not in a bad way. Not exactly. Just… charged. Like something hanging in the air, waiting to drop. He finally exhaled, tapped into his messages, and started fresh.
Ethan: Hey. Just wanted to say hi—and make sure you have my number. No pressure or anything. Hope you're doing okay.
He stared at the text for a beat. Debated a second sentence. Something casual. Or reassuring. Or funny.
Then decided against it.
He hit send.
And watched the screen like it might disappear if he blinked. The message sent. Blue bubble. Delivered. Ethan locked the screen. Immediately unlocked it again. And then—less than a minute later—his phone buzzed.
He nearly dropped it.
Maddie: Oh thank God.
I’ve been sitting here for two days realizing I didn’t have your number, and trying to manifest a text like some kind of weird mom energy spell.
Maddie: Also, hi. It’s really good to hear from you.
I told Chim and Buck. It went better than I thought it might. Still… a lot. But they know. Finally.
Ethan stared at the screen, a little stunned. A beat passed before a small smile crept in. He could almost picture her typing it—half nervous, half dry humor, fingers flying faster than her filter could catch up. He tapped out a reply, thumbs suddenly lighter than they’d been in days.
Ethan: Glad it went okay. And hey—mom energy spell or not, I guess it worked.
He hesitated.
Then added:
Ethan: It’s good to hear from you too.
This was actually happening.
He stared at their thread for a long moment, like the weight of it might tilt the world. Because it was real now. Not just a half-written letter in a dusty Google Docs folder. Not just a research spiral or a missed glance on a sidewalk. Not just facts and bloodlines and unspeakable questions wrapped in silence.
They were texting.
Lightly. Awkwardly. Kind of clumsily.
But texting.
Maddie: We’d love to see you. If you’re comfortable, Buck offered to have us all meet at his place in El Segundo. Less pressure than my house, maybe.
A second later, a follow-up came through.
Maddie: Here’s the address—
She sent it. A little pin on a little map.
Ethan swallowed.
Yeah. He’d… already had that.
He didn’t say it.
Ethan: I can be there by noon, if that’s okay?
It didn’t take her long to respond.
Maddie: Noon is perfect.
He set the phone down on the couch cushion beside him, staring out the wide loft windows as the LA morning settled in outside. A plane cut through the sky overhead. Somewhere down the block, someone was playing music too loud for a Thursday. And in his chest, the quiet ache he’d been carrying for years felt just a little less sharp. He didn’t let himself hope too hard. But he let himself hope.
Just a little.
Noon gave him just under three hours.
Which should’ve been enough.
But somehow, by the time he got off the couch, showered, dressed, and stood at the mirror staring at himself like he didn’t quite recognize the person staring back… it felt like barely enough time to think. He changed shirts three times.
Landed on a rust-colored henley and clean jeans—simple, neutral, not trying too hard. Not that he thought they’d be paying attention to what he wore, but still. First impressions were a thing, even if they were technically second ones.
He stood in front of his open fridge. Closed it. Opened it again. Grabbed a protein bar and shoved it into his pocket without thinking. And then he grabbed the jacket. The leather bomber he’d scored at the thrift store—the Sully one. He hadn’t worn it yet. Hadn’t had a reason. Today felt like a reason.
Keys. Phone. Wallet. Address memorized, even if it hadn’t come from Maddie. He locked the apartment behind him and took the elevator down, heart thudding a little louder than usual. Outside, the day was warming fast, the hazy marine layer burning off in favor of blue skies and a soft breeze. He booked a rideshare. Clutched the strap of his backpack as he waited. He didn’t know what he was walking into. But he was walking toward it.
And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough. El Segundo came into view gradually—low buildings, tree-lined streets, a calmness that didn’t quite feel like the rest of Los Angeles. It had its own rhythm. Slower. Like the neighborhood had nothing to prove. The car dropped him off just before 11:00.
The house sat quiet, tucked in on a quiet residential street that didn’t feel like it belonged only twenty minutes from downtown. There was an orange tree in the front yard, just like he remembered from the day he passed by. A few early fruits still clung to the branches. He stood at the end of the driveway for a moment.
Then checked his watch.
11:03.
A little too early.
So he turned and walked back the way he came, letting his shoes scuff softly against the pavement. There was a coffee shop a few blocks up—quaint, local, not part of a chain. He ordered an iced americano, mostly for the excuse to sit with something in his hands. The first sip grounded him. Bitter. Strong. Real. He found his way toward the beach afterward.
Not all the way down to the sand—just close enough to feel the wind shift, to watch the line of ocean stretch out to some distant point that didn’t require answers. The sun was higher now. The breeze warmer.
He didn’t stay long.
On his way back, he stopped at a nearby supermarket and scanned the wine shelf without knowing what he was doing. He didn’t know if Buck drank. He didn’t even know who else would be there. But it felt like something you were supposed to bring when you didn’t know what else to offer.
He chose a red with a simple label. Mid-range price. Something safe. By the time he made it back to the house, his heart was beating a little faster.
11:45.
He stood at the base of the front steps, bottle tucked under one arm, coffee finished and tossed, sun warm on the back of his neck. He looked at the door. And then he climbed the steps. He knocked three times. Soft, quick.
For a moment, nothing happened. Just the sound of his own breath in his chest and the slight creak of wood under his shoes.
Then the door opened.
The man on the other side didn’t speak at first.
Neither did Ethan.
They just… looked at each other. It was like looking through a window. Or maybe a mirror—one warped by time and ten more years of sun and fire and life. Buck was taller by a couple inches, broader in the shoulders, the kind of built that came from hauling people out of burning buildings for a living. But the resemblance was undeniable. Same chin. Same nose. Same ridiculous curl at the front of their hair that never quite behaved.
Same eyes.
Ice-blue and sharp enough to see through things.
Ethan swallowed.
Buck blinked once, then huffed a half-breath. “She really wasn’t kidding,” he said—mostly to himself. Then he stepped back, holding the door wider. “Come on in.” Ethan nodded once and stepped over the threshold.
The house was warm, lived-in, and surprisingly calm. Somewhere down the hall, a ceiling fan whirred. He heard the faint clink of dishes drying on a rack. And then it hit him.
They were alone.
Maddie wasn’t here yet.
Neither was Chimney.
And Buck had to see it—because his brow lifted slightly as he closed the door.
“We don’t have to make small talk,” he said easily. “Unless you want to.”
Ethan opened his mouth. Closed it. Buck tilted his head. “You want a beer?” It was such a casual, normal question. Like they were two coworkers hanging out after a long shift. Like this wasn’t something quietly historic. Ethan nodded. “Yeah. Sure. That’d be good.” Buck disappeared into the kitchen. Ethan stayed standing in the entryway a beat longer, fingers tightening around the bottle of wine in his hand.
It wasn’t just good.
It was something like oxygen. Buck returned a moment later, two beers in hand. He twisted the caps off with ease and passed one over before taking the seat across from Ethan. They sat in silence for a beat, the kind that wasn’t quite uncomfortable but hadn’t settled into comfort yet, either. Just… observation. Measuring. Taking stock.
Ethan felt it too.
The resemblance wasn’t any less strange up close. Buck leaned back slightly, studying him. Then, with the faintest quirk of his lip, he asked, “Your name’s Ethan, right?”
Ethan nodded. “Yeah.”
Buck tilted his beer slightly in his hand. “Maddie’s the one that named me. Evan.” He shrugged. “Guess she’s got a thing for E-names.” It was so small. Barely a comment. But it cracked the air just enough to let the pressure out.
Ethan smiled, surprised at how easy it came. “Yeah, tell me about it. I love my name, don’t get me wrong—but I was one of, like, six Ethans in every class at Yale.” Buck laughed—quick and genuine. “Yeah, that tracks.”
He took a sip of his beer. “There’s a reason I go by Buck. You get to the fire academy and realize half your cohort’s named Evan, you start looking for alternate branding real fast.” Ethan snorted at that, then covered it with another sip. The ice wasn’t broken, exactly—but it was definitely cracking. Buck leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “So, Yale?” Ethan nodded. “Three years. Just transferred out to UCLA over the winter. Felt like a good change.” Buck’s brow lifted, interested. “And you like it?”
“It’s different,” Ethan admitted. “But I think that’s what I needed. New campus. New pace. Better weather.”
Buck chuckled. “That’s one thing LA always delivers on.”
“And you’re with the 118?”
Buck nodded. “Nine years this fall.” Ethan raised an eyebrow. “You ever think about leaving?” Buck tilted his head, considering. “Sometimes. Then something pulls me back in. The people, mostly. The chaos is just part of the deal.” Ethan grinned. “Sounds like half my lab experiences, honestly.”
And just like that, the thread between them started weaving in—light and effortless. Questions led to stories. Stories led to more questions. Los Angeles. UCLA. The 118. Foster care. The parts they were comfortable sharing. It was surprisingly easy, once they got started. So easy, in fact, that neither of them noticed the front door open until a small voice rang out.
“Uncle Buck!”
Ethan turned toward the sound just as Buck lit up, standing instinctively. Maddie, Chim, and a wide-eyed little girl with a sippy cup in hand stood just inside the door.
Ethan’s breath caught slightly.
Because now it wasn’t just a conversation. Now it was real again. Ethan stood automatically, just a half-second behind Buck, beer still loosely in hand. The little girl barreled toward Buck like a heat-seeking missile, and he bent down to scoop her up with practiced ease, grinning as she latched onto his neck.
“Hey, Jellybean,” he said, bouncing her gently. “Miss me already?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, voice muffled against his shirt.
Maddie smiled—then turned her eyes to Ethan. They flicked between him and Buck, once, twice. Her brows lifted, faintly amused. It took Ethan a second to realize why.
Oh.
They were both just… standing there. Stock still. Expressions vaguely stunned. Probably wearing matching what-do-we-do-now faces. They were giving her identical cow-eyed looks. Ethan could feel it happening and couldn’t stop it. Buck must’ve realized the same, because he let out a soft, sheepish laugh and shifted Jee-Yun onto one hip.
“Okay,” Maddie said lightly, “I guess you two found something to talk about.”
Ethan managed a small smile. “A few things.” She stepped inside, Chim following behind her with the diaper bag slung over one shoulder. Maddie gave Ethan a quick once-over—reassuring, not evaluative—then glanced toward the clock on the wall.
“Sorry we’re late,” she said. “We meant to be here around 11:30, but there was a wreck on the 5. Total mess. We had to cut through side streets in Inglewood.”
“Figured something must’ve happened,” Buck said, easing Jee onto the couch. “You’re never late without a reason.”
Maddie gave him a look. “You’ve known me for thirty years. You think I wouldn’t call if I was bailing on this?” Buck held up both hands, mock-defensive. “Hey, no judgment. Just saying. It crossed my mind you might be psyching yourself out.” She scoffed—then turned to Ethan, all humor softening into something warmer.
“I’m really glad you came,” she said.
Ethan swallowed and nodded. “Me too.”
And he meant it.
Even if he still didn’t know what came next. Chim set the diaper bag down and walked over, extending a hand with an easy smile.
“Howard Han,” he said. “But everyone calls me Chim.”
Ethan shook his hand, grateful for the grounding pressure of it.
“Ethan,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
Chim’s eyes slid over to the counter, spotting the bottle of wine Ethan had brought. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he reached into the diaper bag’s side pocket and pulled out an identical bottle. He held it up with a knowing look. “Great minds think alike.” Ethan let out a surprised laugh. “Guess I picked well.”
“You’ll fit in just fine,” Chim said.
Then Jee-Yun came padding up to Maddie’s side, sippy cup clutched loosely in one hand, eyes full of curiosity. Maddie crouched beside her and smoothed a hand gently over her hair.
“Hey, sweetie,” she said softly, “I want you to meet someone really special.”
Jee leaned against her leg, peeking up at Ethan from behind her mom’s arm.
“This is Ethan,” Maddie said. “He’s your big brother.”
Jee blinked.
“My brudder?” she asked, voice small and skeptical.
Maddie nodded. “Yup. He was born a long time ago—even before I knew you were going to be mine. He had to go somewhere safe for a while. But he’s safe now. And he’s here!” Jee stared at Ethan for a second longer. Seemed to decide that was good enough. Then she ran at him.
Ethan barely registered it before she barreled into him, throwing her arms around his middle like she’d done it a hundred times.
“Oh,” he said, a little breathless. “Hi.”
From the kitchen, Buck chuckled. “Yeah. She’s fast with the loyalty.” Ethan blinked down at her—small, warm, real. He could feel her cheek pressed against his coat, her fingers balled into the fabric. He looked up at Maddie, startled. She just smiled. Eyes full, but steady. Maybe it was easier, at that age. No hesitation. No history to work through.
Just connection.
Lunch came together in a quiet, comfortable rhythm—slow-cooker roast that had filled the house with the kind of scent you didn’t realize you missed until it hit you in the chest. Buck was in the kitchen working on a side of parmesan-crusted smashed potatoes, methodically halving each one with the kind of focus that looked second nature. There was banana-nut bread cooling on a wire rack. Ethan’s brows lifted as he hovered nearby.
“Did you bake that?”
Buck glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah.”
Ethan blinked. “Seriously?”
Buck shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Couple overripe bananas. Figured why not.”
“That’s wild. I bake, too.”
Buck paused—knife mid-air—then turned fully. “You what?” Ethan laughed at the look on his face. “Yeah. Started back in high school. Took Home Ec as an easy A and kind of… liked it. Turns out baking’s a solid way to clear your head.” Buck slowly set the knife down. “Okay. Hold on. You stress-bake?” Ethan nodded, amused. “All the time. Exams, roommate drama, existential dread… there’s usually a loaf of something involved.” From across the kitchen, Maddie let out a choked noise, spinning toward them with her lips pressed together—eyes wide.
She looked at Buck. Then at Ethan. Then back at Buck. Buck didn’t even turn. He just pointed toward her without looking. “Don’t.” Maddie giggled anyway, covering her mouth. Buck shook his head, smirking as he went back to the potatoes. “Alright, fine. Guess that’s one more thing.”
“Do you stress-bake?” Ethan asked.
Buck shrugged. “You ever try yelling into a pillow? Bread’s better.” Ethan smiled. “Yeah. That’s exactly it.” Before either of them could say more, a small hand wrapped around Ethan’s wrist.
He looked down.
Jee-Yun was tugging at him with determined little steps. “C’mere,” she said seriously. Ethan glanced at the others.
“She’s giving you the tour,” Maddie explained with a fond smile.
Jee tugged him down the hallway and into a room he hadn’t seen yet. The moment he stepped through the door, it was obvious: this room belonged to someone.
A desktop computer sat on the far side, the tower humming faintly, a pair of headphones looped neatly over one corner of the monitor. Several PC game boxes were stacked beside the keyboard, slightly out of order, like they were in regular rotation. The walls were painted a soft navy, and one corner near the window was taken up by a well-loved Lumineers poster, its edges slightly curled from sun exposure.
The bed was made, but the comforter had that slept-in look, like someone had just tossed the sheets back into place before heading out. It was neat, personal, and deeply lived-in. Jee scrambled onto the bed and started digging through a small drawer in the nightstand—pulling out a couple of keychains, a squishy fidget toy, and what looked like a cracked handheld game console. Ethan sat down gingerly on the edge of the mattress, trying not to disturb anything.
She talked the whole time, in her usual steady stream of high-speed childhood logic:
“This is Chris’s room. He’s in Texas right now. He lets me borrow this sometimes. Uncle Buck says maybe they’ll come back soon. Chris is really good at games but not the ones where you run a lot, ‘cause his legs don’t always listen. But he’s really smart. And he has better snacks.”
Ethan blinked, trying to keep up.
Chris. Texas. Games. Legs.
A soft pang settled in his chest. Whoever Chris was, he wasn’t here—but he was everywhere in this room.
And clearly, he mattered.
Ethan leaned back slightly, gaze drifting to the poster by the window, to the charger cord coiled next to the pillow, to the blue hoodie draped over the desk chair.
This was someone’s space.
And Jee trusted him enough to bring him into it.
He didn’t ask questions.
He just sat quietly and listened. Jee bounced on the bed as she talked, stringing stories together without pause: bits and pieces about Chris, about Texas, about snack hoarding and game scores and legs that “don’t always listen, but still go so fast when he gets mad.”
Ethan nodded along, not trying to follow all of it—just letting her voice fill the space. He glanced around the room again, eyes drifting toward the small dresser near the window. Among the game cases and tangled charging cords was a picture frame. He leaned in, just slightly.
It was a candid shot—clearly not staged. A little boy with bright blue eyes—darker than Ethan’s or Buck’s, but unmistakably blue—stood smiling with a pair of crutches braced under each arm. His hair was a mop of soft, curly copper-brown, like spun autumn light, mid-giggle when the photo was snapped. Beside him stood a woman.
She was beautiful, in a quietly striking way. Light copper-brown hair curled softly around her shoulders, the same shade as the boy’s. But it was her eyes that caught him.
Green.
Not hazel, not soft olive—but piercing, crystalline green. The kind of green that reminded Ethan of old turquoise jewelry in museum cases. Sharp and ancient and deep. She had one arm around the boy’s shoulders, the other holding one of his crutches steady, her smile barely there but unmistakably proud. Ethan blinked, taking them in. He didn’t know who they were. But the photo was displayed deliberately—like a memory meant to stay present.
He didn’t ask.
Didn’t want to break whatever quiet thing had settled around the room. So instead, he let his eyes rest on the boy’s grin. Wide. Whole. Happy.
And in that moment, Ethan felt something else settle in beside the hope:
Curiosity.
He was still looking at the photo when footsteps creaked gently in the hallway. A moment later, Buck leaned into the doorway, one hand braced on the frame.
“Lunch is ready,” he said, voice low and easy. “Roast should be fall-apart perfect by now.”
Ethan turned, standing slowly—but not before Buck’s eyes followed his line of sight. They landed on the photo. The boy. The woman. That quiet, joyful moment frozen in time. Buck glanced back at him, something soft tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“He’s not mine,” he said gently. “Chris.”
Ethan blinked.
“I mean, not biologically,” Buck added. “But I love him like he is.”
He took a small step further into the room, eyes brushing over the photo again.
“His dad’s my best friend. They’re in Texas right now, working some things out. I’m subletting while they’re gone.”
Ethan gave a quiet nod. “He seems happy.” Buck smiled faintly. “He is. Or—he will be. He’s got a big heart. Just needed time.” Ethan glanced back at the picture on the dresser. The boy’s blue eyes. That same copper-brown hair. A grin tugged at Ethan’s lips.
“Somebody should tell the kid’s genetics that.”
Buck let out a soft laugh—unexpected, but genuine. “Yeah. I’ve heard that one before.” A beat passed, not awkward.
Just quiet.
Then Buck clapped a hand lightly on Ethan’s shoulder.
“Come on,” he said. “Potatoes are getting cold.”
Ethan followed him down the hallway, back toward the scent of roast and laughter and everything he hadn’t let himself hope for. And for the first time since arriving in LA, something in him eased.
Not completely.
But enough.
Lunch had been really good. The roast had practically melted apart with a fork, the potatoes were crisp at the edges and cheesy in the way that required no explanation, and the banana bread—still slightly warm—had been almost insultingly good for something made from fruit that most people would’ve thrown away. And now, somehow, the afternoon had melted around them.
They were on the back porch, shaded from the sun, sipping drinks while Jee-Yun tore through the grass like she’d been professionally trained in joy. Her giggles floated across the yard as she made up some elaborate story with a plastic watering can and two leaves.
It was peaceful.
The kind of quiet that didn’t press against your chest, but settled in it. Ethan leaned back in the patio chair, one ankle resting on his knee, a second piece of banana bread balanced on a small plate in his lap. The sun cast slanted golden shadows over the fence. There was a breeze. Just enough to carry the smell of cut grass and roasted coffee grounds from someone else’s kitchen window down the street.
It was nice.
So nice that he couldn’t remember why he’d been nervous about coming.
Everything was just… easy.
Buck leaned back in the chair beside him, nursing the last of his beer. After a moment, he pulled a folded napkin from his pocket and slid it across the glass table between them.
Ethan looked down.
A phone number.
Buck didn’t say anything for a second. Just watched Jee dart after a butterfly. Then: “You don’t have to use it. But just in case.” Ethan looked at the napkin. Then at Buck. He didn’t say anything either. Just smiled and tucked it into his back pocket.
That was enough.
Across from them, Maddie lifted her glass of iced tea. “So, when do your classes start?” Ethan glanced over. “Still have a few months. Semester doesn’t start ‘til mid-August.” She nodded. “You all moved in and settled?”
“Mostly. I’m still waiting on a few things in the Pod—some furniture, books. And figuring out what I’m doing schedule-wise.”
“You’ve got time,” Buck said.
Ethan nodded. “Yeah. Gonna finish out my last few courses, probably pick up an internship. I’m not completely locked in, but… I’m on track for early graduation.”
Maddie blinked. “December?”
“Yeah.”
She looked quietly impressed. “That’s… kind of amazing.” Ethan shrugged, smiling down at his plate. “Just means I didn’t have time to screw around.” Buck smirked. “Yeah, I definitely took the scenic route.” Ethan chuckled under his breath. And the breeze moved again.
And Jee laughed.
And the sky stayed wide and blue and full of possibility. The breeze shifted again, carrying the scent of banana bread and jasmine. Buck reached forward, nudging a coaster into place with his thumb, almost absentmindedly. “The 118’s always looking for someone to help around the house. You know—sorting inventory, cleaning up the gear cages, organizing the med closet. Stuff no one ever wants to do.”
Chimney made a noise of agreement from the other side of the porch. “Seriously. It’s a mess in there. You’d be doing us a favor.” Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Is this a job offer?” Buck shrugged. “Call it an open door. No pressure. Just… if you’re looking to fill some time before school kicks in.” Chim nodded. “Plus, it’d help you meet some of the crew. They’re good people.”
Ethan looked out toward the yard, where Jee was now attempting to convince a birdbath to be a hot tub for her doll.
“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “I might take you up on that.”
Buck leaned back in his chair, arms resting loosely across the sides. “Most of our friends are pretty close-knit. A few have kids—some around your age.” Maddie glanced over with a small smile. “May and Harry are practically Buck’s younger siblings at this point. Their parents kind of… adopted him, over the years.”
“Bobby and Athena,” Chim added. “Bobby’s our captain. Athena’s LAPD. They’ve been there for all of us. But especially Buck.”
Buck shrugged, not downplaying it, just quietly grateful. “They’re family. No blood, but all the stuff that matters.” Ethan nodded, his gaze drifting as Buck continued, “May’s twenty-three—pre-law at UCLA. You probably walked right past her a dozen times on campus. Harry’s fifteen. Denny’s about to turn fourteen.” He hesitated, just for a second. “Chris, too. He’s fourteen. He and his dad—Eddie—they’re in El Paso right now.” Ethan glanced at him, picking up on the slight shift in Buck’s tone.
“They’ll be back?” he asked, not quite sure why he phrased it like a question.
Buck gave a quiet nod. “I hope so. It’s still kind of up in the air.” There was something in his voice—something unspoken but familiar. Ethan didn’t press. Just tucked the name away.
Eddie.
Another person who mattered.
Another piece of this strange, layered life he’d stumbled into.
“They’re younger than me,” Ethan said after a beat. “But… not too much.”
“Close enough,” Maddie said again. “It’s not about age. It’s about how people make space.”
Ethan looked down at the last of the banana bread on his plate.
And smiled.
The sun had dipped low enough to spill amber light across the backyard. Jee was now occupied with lining up tiny stones along the fence, narrating a grand adventure to no one in particular. The porch buzzed softly with the quiet clink of glasses, the last crumbs of banana bread picked from plates. Ethan checked the time on his phone. It was getting late—and something in him told him not to overstay the warmth he’d been so freely offered.
He stood, brushing his hands on his jeans. “I should probably get going,” he said. “Still have a few apartment boxes calling my name.” Buck stood too, matching the motion instinctively. “Sure you don’t want to stay and help us fold laundry?” he offered dryly. Ethan smirked. “Tempting. But no.”
Then, pulling a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, Ethan scribbled his number on the corner of a napkin and slid it toward Buck with a raised brow. “Figured I shouldn’t make the same mistake twice.” Buck took it with a small grin. “Smart man.”
Ethan turned to Maddie, a question already half-formed. “I don’t know if it’s too soon to ask, but… maybe we could do this again? Later this week?” She didn’t hesitate. “That’s doable.” Chim nodded. “We’ve got a synced-up 48 coming up. No major calls—hopefully.”
“I start maternity leave this week,” Maddie added. “So I’ve got time. I’ll text you. We’ll figure something out.”
That word—we—settled somewhere low in Ethan’s chest, warm and soft and wholly unexpected. Jee ran up to him as he neared the door, throwing her arms around his leg in a fierce goodbye hug. Ethan blinked once. Then bent down and hugged her back. It was the easiest thing in the world.
He said one last thank-you, offered a wave to everyone, and stepped off the porch. The warm air brushed over him as the screen door eased shut behind. He’d barely made it twenty feet up the sidewalk when his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
He opened it.
Buck: You forgot your banana bread. I’ll trade it for more Home Ec secrets next time.
Ethan laughed out loud—startled at how easy it came. He glanced over his shoulder, back at the house. Still glowing with porch light, still echoing with muffled voices and something that almost felt like memory already. Then he turned toward the beach, hands in his pockets, and kept walking. The sidewalk stretched forward in slow rhythm, the breeze shifting toward salt and sea. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a question looking for an answer. Just someone finally headed somewhere.