Chapter Text
The city was barely breathing yet. Venice Beach stretched wide and quiet beneath the slow-paling sky, its usual chaos dialed down to a murmur. No screaming kids, no tourists in matching shirts, no drum circles or sunburned street performers hawking incense and sticker packs. Just the early risers—the ones who preferred solitude with their sweat. Joggers. Dog walkers. A few locals biking slowly down the boardwalk, headphones in and eyes half-lidded from sleep. Ethan liked it best like this.
Just after six. The sun not fully risen, the Pacific still wearing that steel-gray coat it shed by midmorning. The breeze was crisp, not cold, and the sand was mostly undisturbed except for scattered gull prints and the deep ruts left behind by the maintenance crew’s early pass.
He jogged at an even pace, letting his breath settle into a rhythm. Not pushing himself, not lagging either. Just… moving. His muscles ached in a satisfying way. A quiet burn in his calves and thighs, a little tension in his shoulders from poor sleep the night before. But his mind, for once, felt steady.
When he hit the third lifeguard tower—the one painted light blue, flaking in places from salt wind and sun—he slowed. Not because he was tired, but because the moment called for stillness. A small ritual, maybe.
He leaned against the tower’s side, resting one foot against the wood, pulling in a deep breath that carried the scent of seaweed, sunscreen, and ocean. His phone buzzed in his waistband pocket. He pulled it out, expecting spam.
Buck: Are you at Venice Beach right now?
Ethan frowned, thumbs pausing over the screen.
Ethan: Yeah… on a jog. Why?
The reply came almost instantly.
Buck: Because I’m pretty sure I just saw you at the lifeguard tower. About 500 feet ahead of me.
Ethan turned, squinting down the stretch of beach. Sure enough, there he was—Buck, in a cutoff hoodie and shorts, jogging in that easy, long-stride rhythm that suggested he’d already been running for miles. His hair was damp with sweat, headphones looped around his neck now that he’d spotted Ethan. Ethan blinked, then laughed under his breath. Buck jogged up with a smile. “Didn’t know you ran this way.”
“I could say the same,” Ethan said, straightening. “Thought you were more of an El Segundo to Playa Del Rey kind of guy.”
Buck shrugged, pulling one earbud out. “Usually. But sometimes I switch it up. Santa Monica, Venice… depends on the morning.” Ethan nodded, pretending to stretch. “You wanna join me, then?” Buck’s eyebrow arched. “Is that a challenge?”
“Maybe.”
Buck grinned, patting Ethan lightly on the chest as he stepped past him. “Then you’re gonna have to catch up first.” And just like that, he took off. Ethan didn’t wait. He launched after him, the ground solid and smooth underfoot, adrenaline singing through his veins. He passed Buck easily by the halfway mark, his pace a practiced, effortless rhythm. Buck called out behind him, breath huffed and laughing, “Jesus—how are you that fast?” Ethan glanced over his shoulder. “Cross-country!” Buck’s voice was half a wheeze, half a grin. “Unfair advantage!”
They kept going, the Venice Fishing Pier drawing closer with each long stride, until Ethan hit the wooden walkway a full ten seconds ahead. He bent forward, hands on his knees, grinning as Buck caught up and slumped beside him.
Ethan was still catching his breath when he said, “I was small for most of high school. Skinny, not a lot of upper-body strength. So I ran. Got fast. Real fast.” Buck gave a breathless laugh. “I noticed.”
“One of the things that helped me get a scholarship,” Ethan added. “Yale gave me a shot because of it.”
Buck looked over at him, impressed. “No kidding?” Ethan just nodded, still smiling faintly. And for a while, neither of them said anything. The sky brightened by inches. The world kept waking up. And Ethan, heart still pounding from the run, felt more awake than he had in weeks.
They stood on the pier for a little while longer, breathing in the salt air and letting their bodies cool. The sun had fully broken past the horizon now, casting everything in soft gold. The city wasn’t quiet anymore—but it wasn’t noisy yet either. Just alive. Waking up with them. Buck stretched his arms overhead, letting out a soft groan. “Man, I am too old to be racing twenty-year-olds before breakfast.”
“You’re not that old,” Ethan said, amused.
Buck huffed. “Tell my knees that.” They started walking slowly back down the boardwalk, matching strides without needing to talk about it. After a beat, Buck spoke again. “I’m actually glad I ran into you this morning.”
Ethan glanced over. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Buck wiped sweat from his brow. “Bobby’s been on me. Wants me to bring you by the firehouse. Said it doesn’t have to be anything big—just a tour, get a feel for the place. Then, if you’re into it, maybe we try out that volunteer idea we mentioned.”
Ethan nodded, thoughtful. “I’ve been kind of bored, honestly. Campus is half-empty this time of year. I’ve already explored most of LA I can reach by bus.” Buck grinned. “Then sounds like good timing.” They rounded a corner, the rhythm of the ocean still trailing behind them.
“Past two weeks,” Buck added, “Maddie and Chim and I have kind of been… working the social circle. Letting people know.”
Ethan raised a brow.
“About you,” Buck clarified. “I mean, not like we’re sending out birth announcements or anything, but people are curious. Our circle’s small, but it’s tight. And once one person knows…”
“Everyone knows,” Ethan finished, smirking.
“Exactly.”
Ethan didn’t mind, surprisingly. A couple of weeks ago, the idea of people whispering about him might’ve made his skin crawl. But now… it just felt like momentum.
“Hen’s been dying to meet you,” Buck continued. “Athena too. I think they just wanna see if you’re anything like me.”
Ethan chuckled under his breath. “And are they hoping I am or am not?”
“Depends on the day,” Buck said with a shrug. “Hen says she’s bracing herself either way. Athena’s more curious. Wants to see if lightning struck twice.”
Ethan arched a brow. “And what do you think?” Buck gave him a sidelong look, his grin returning. “I think you’ve got way more sense than I did at your age. And you’re definitely not walking chaos with a hero complex, so that’s a good start.” Ethan laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Trust me. It is.”
They kept walking, the hum of early traffic starting to rise with the sun. The boardwalk was busier now—runners, dog walkers, a guy setting up his painting easel by the railing. And somewhere, woven through all of it, Ethan felt the threads pulling tighter. Less like he was drifting. More like he was circling something steady.
They walked a bit more in silence, but it was the good kind. The kind that settled between them like sand finding its level. Eventually, Ethan checked his phone. “Hey, uh… if you’re not in a rush to get back—wanna come by my place for breakfast?” Buck glanced over, brows lifting slightly. “You cook, and bake?”
“Not well, but yeah,” Ethan said with a faint grin. “Hashbrowns. Avocado toast. Might even poach some eggs if I’m feeling froggy.”
Buck chuckled. “Poached eggs, huh? That’s bold.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“Alright then.” Buck nodded, stretching out one last time before they slowed to a stop near a rideshare zone. “Lead the way, Chef.”
Ethan called the Uber, and they climbed in. The morning sun was getting stronger now, throwing streaks of orange and rose across the windows as they drove. They passed down Lincoln, wound through a few side streets, and soon enough, Ethan recognized the turns by heart. What he also noticed—barely, but clearly—was the way Buck’s posture shifted.
Subtle.
Just the way his eyes started tracking the buildings they passed. The way he tilted his head, ever so slightly, like he was trying to place something. Not lost—but… remembering. And then they pulled up to the complex.
Ethan could feel the moment hit, even before Buck said a word. His ears twitched, eyes wide as the car slowed to the curb.
“This you?” Buck asked, tone almost too casual.
Ethan nodded, stepping out. “Yeah. Unit 403.” He didn’t miss the way Buck just… stared. Not in judgment. Not even in surprise.
Just slack-jawed.
They made it halfway to the front door before Ethan finally glanced back and asked, “Okay, what’s your face doing?” Buck was still staring up at the building, slack-jawed.
“That used to be my loft,” he said, voice edged with disbelief. “Ten weeks ago, give or take.”
Ethan stopped short. “Seriously?”
Buck nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I gave it up when I started subletting Eddie’s place. Figured it was one less thing for him to worry about.” Ethan blinked, trying to re-contextualize the space he’d been calling home for the past few weeks. “Wait… you mean the same Eddie you mentioned the other day? Chris’s dad?”
“Yeah.” Buck gave a quiet laugh. “God, this is so weird.”
“I didn’t even realize,” Ethan said. “It’s not like there’s a plaque on the wall or anything.”
Buck grinned. “There should be. ‘Evan Buckley lived here: probably cooked way too much pasta.’” Ethan rolled his eyes, unlocking the front door. “Guess that explains the built-in spice rack.”
“I knew I left that.”
They stepped inside the lobby, the sunlight streaking through the tall front windows. It wasn’t awkward, somehow. Just… uncanny. Like the universe was folding itself into smaller and smaller circles.
“I’ve gotta admit,” Buck said, glancing around one last time as they headed toward the stairs, “you’ve made the place look way better already. Your couch actually fits the space.”
Ethan smirked. “Well, thanks. I’ll try not to burn the kitchen down.”
“No promises, though,” Buck said, following him up the steps with a laugh.
And despite the strangeness of it—despite the fact that Ethan had unknowingly stepped right into the exact footprint Buck had left behind—he felt… at ease. Like maybe this wasn’t a coincidence at all. Just one more thread pulling him closer to something that was already his.
They made it up the stairs, and Ethan unlocked the unit with the same practiced ease he was still getting used to. The door creaked a little as it opened, the hinges always catching at the halfway mark, just like they had the day he moved in. Buck stepped inside and slowed immediately, his eyes sweeping across the space like he was walking through a memory.
The morning light poured through the tall windows, catching on the edges of the cognac-colored sofa and glinting faintly off the glass coffee table. The wide shelf—half filled with vinyl records, half with old trophies, books, and a weathered bugle—sat against the far brick wall like it had always belonged there. Pops of mustard yellow and navy broke up the warm tones, carried through the throw pillows and a canvas print or two. The mid-century bar cabinet stood proudly beneath the floating stairs, already stocked modestly with a couple bottles and a matching set of glasses.
Buck let out a slow breath. “Wow.” Ethan tossed his keys onto the table, shrugging out of his hoodie. “Too much?” Buck shook his head, slowly walking farther in. “No. Just—impressive. Seriously. This place looks… good.” Ethan watched him as Buck’s gaze traced the lines of the living room and then up to the mezzanine.
“I never got it to look like this,” Buck admitted. “It always felt too empty or too cluttered. Like I was trying too hard or not trying enough. No middle ground.”
“Well,” Ethan said, pulling open the fridge, “maybe that just means your style didn’t match the space.”
Buck let out a soft laugh. “Or I was using it like a storage unit with plumbing.” Ethan smirked as he started pulling things out—eggs, an avocado, the leftover shredded potatoes he’d prepped the night before. “Still. Feels kind of poetic.” Buck leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “What does?”
“That I ended up here. In your old place. Without either of us knowing.”
Buck tilted his head, considering. “Or it’s the universe having a really on-the-nose sense of humor.”
“Same thing.”
Buck chuckled, and Ethan grabbed a skillet, setting it on the stove. The pan hissed faintly as it warmed.
“I like the rug, by the way,” Buck added. “Makes the room feel less echo-y.”
Ethan glanced down at the eggshell-colored rug beneath the coffee table. “It was a splurge.”
“Good one.”
The smell of crisping hashbrowns started filling the loft, curling into the exposed beams and soft morning light like it belonged there. Ethan cracked a few eggs into a pan without looking, his hands moving on autopilot. This wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t even a plan.
But it felt… right.
Like something normal people did. Like something family might do. Ethan had just started mashing up the avocado when Buck stepped forward, washing his hands in the kitchen sink with a decisive roll of his shoulders.
“I’ll do the eggs,” he said, reaching for a pan.
Ethan blinked. “You don’t have to—” Buck shot him a look. “You said poached, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but—”
Buck grabbed the slotted spoon from the drawer like he’d lived here yesterday. “Then let me poach the damn eggs.” Ethan huffed, amused but not resisting. “Fine. But I’m not cleaning if you break one.” Buck smirked. “I’ve worked a pressure cooker in a blackout. I think I can manage water and eggs.”
And, annoyingly, he could.
By the time Ethan finished plating the hashbrowns and toast, Buck was lifting two perfectly poached eggs from the simmering water, sliding them onto each plate with surgeon-level precision. They perched on opposite sides of the kitchen—Ethan cross-legged atop the island, Buck settling on the counter by the stove, mug in hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world. For a while, they just ate. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. Just easy. Eventually, Ethan glanced up. “You got a shift today?”
Buck nodded around a bite of toast. “Yeah. Starts this afternoon. Last one before my 48 off.”
“Overnight?”
“Usually is.”
Ethan took a sip of water, twirling his fork idly. “Would it be… too much if I tagged along for a bit? Just to see the place. Get a lay of the land.” He meant it casually, but it came out a little more tentative than he intended.
Buck looked up.
Smiled—bright, genuine. “Not too much at all. I was gonna ask if you wanted to swing by anyway.” Ethan raised an eyebrow. “You were?”
“Like I said, Bobby’s been bugging me about it,” Buck said with a shrug. “Wants to meet you. Hen too. Chim’s already given them the full rundown.”
Ethan gave a small laugh. “Well, if Hen’s as intimidating as Maddie made her sound…” Buck grinned, grabbing another bite. “Don’t worry. She’ll like you. And if she doesn’t, she’ll still make sure you leave with a moral lesson and her phone number for emergencies.” Ethan shook his head, smiling to himself.
This was happening.
Not in huge, world-shifting ways.
Just little ones.
One plate at a time. One moment at a time.
The locker room was quiet except for the low clatter of boots on tile and the occasional creak of hinges as gear bags were opened and closed. Chimney was tugging his jacket over his shoulder while Hen laced up her boots, already halfway into her mental checklist for the shift.
“Station’s got that new turnout delivery today,” she muttered absently, mostly to herself. “Gotta make sure the sizes are right. Last time they sent a small instead of a medium and nearly choked Marco.”
“Ah, bureaucracy,” Chim said, flashing her a grin as he zipped up. “Truly the most dangerous thing at the 118.”
Bobby’s voice carried in from the hallway, just before his boots appeared in the doorway. Clipboard in hand, glasses low on his nose, he looked up from the roster as he leaned in.
“Evening. Quick rundown—Caprice is out sick. We’re one behind for the shift unless anyone’s up for floating double duties.”
Chim’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, read the message, and let out a soft huh.
“What is it?” Hen asked.
He held up the screen. “Buck just texted. Says he’s bringing a ‘special guest’ tonight.” Bobby raised an eyebrow. “That solve our man-behind issue?” Chim glanced at Hen, then back to Bobby. “Possibly. I think it’s the kid.” Hen looked up at that, hand still on her bootlace. “He’s coming tonight?”
“Looks like it.”
Bobby made a thoughtful noise, started to scribble something on the clipboard. But Hen stepped forward. “Actually—mark me man behind.” Bobby paused, pen hovering. “You sure?” She nodded. “I want to get a feel for him. Let him ease into the place without the pressure of a full roster around. And someone should give him a good first impression of how we operate.” Chim chuckled. “You mean someone other than Buck.”
Hen didn’t deny it.
Bobby smiled slightly, and marked her name. “Done. Thanks, Hen.” She shrugged like it was nothing, even though something in her chest was already tuning itself. Not tension. Just readiness. She remembered the first time she met Buck. The blur of energy, that unchecked enthusiasm, the mess of potential barely held together by caffeine and charm. And this kid—this Ethan—wasn’t him. Not exactly. But he came from somewhere close. And Hen? She wanted to see what that looked like.
Up close.
Hen leaned back against the bench, arms crossed loosely as she nodded toward Chim. “So… what’s he like?” Chim raised a brow. “Ethan?”
“No, the other mystery family member Maddie dropped into existence,” she deadpanned.
Chim gave her a look but softened quickly. “He’s a good one.” Hen stayed quiet, waiting for the rest.
“He’s… reserved,” Chim said. “Not in a bad way. Just more internal. Like he takes his time before speaking. Watches a room before stepping into it.”
Hen tilted her head, considering. “Observant?”
“Exactly. Sharp, too. You can tell he’s paying attention. Not shy, but there’s a quiet to him. Like he’s still deciding how much of himself to show.”
Hen gave a knowing smile. “So, the anti-Buck.” Chim snorted. “Yeah. He probably balances Buck out more than Buck realizes. Doesn’t mean he’s cold, though. There’s warmth, just… subtle.” Before Hen could reply, the sound of two car doors closing echoed through the engine bay. She stepped toward the window, tilting the blinds with two fingers.
Buck was striding up the walkway, his hoodie sleeves shoved past his elbows, that familiar bounce in his step unmistakable. Already mid-laugh about something. Beside him was someone Hen hadn’t seen before.
He was similar enough to Buck that the resemblance caught her eye right away—same copper-toned hair that hovered between ginger and blonde depending on the light, a similar build. But the energy was entirely different.
While Buck moved like a live wire, this kid—Ethan—walked with an easy, measured calm. Eyes scanning the station, not in paranoia, but out of curiosity. Interest. He looked like someone who’d been paying attention his whole life. Chim stepped beside her. “That’s him.” Hen squinted through the window. “Definitely got Buck’s hair.”
“Yeah,” Chim agreed. “But the temperament? That’s Maddie. You can see it in the way he carries himself. Measured. Quiet, but not afraid.”
Hen nodded. “Grounded.”
Chim grinned. “Honestly? Feels like the best of both of them.” Hen didn’t say anything else, but her curiosity sharpened. Because whatever this kid was—whoever he turned out to be—she was starting to think he might just fit in here better than any of them expected. And she was ready to find out for herself. Buck stepped through first, relaxed as ever. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Bobby was already waiting near the rig, clipboard still tucked under one arm. “Nothing we can’t make room for,” he said, smiling easily as his gaze shifted to the young man walking beside Buck.
Ethan followed in with a quiet sort of focus—not wary, but aware. Hen noticed the way he stood, a little straighter than Buck, like he was trying not to take up too much space.
“Ethan,” Buck said, gesturing toward the team, “this is Captain Bobby Nash. And that’s Hen, and you already met Chim.”
Bobby stepped forward and extended a hand. “Captain Nash,” he said, firm but kind. “But you can call me Bobby.” Ethan shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“None of that ‘sir’ stuff,” Bobby said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “We’re pretty informal around here. You’re family.”
There was no loaded weight behind the word—it was just how Bobby was. But Hen saw the way Ethan blinked at it, like the term landed a little heavier than he expected. Chim gave a two-finger wave from where he was sorting gear. “Evenin', kid.” Ethan offered a small wave back. “Hey, Chim.” Then Hen stepped forward, hand outstretched.
“Hen Wilson,” she said. “And you must be the amazing kid they’ve been hiding.”
Ethan gave a polite laugh, shaking her hand. That was when she saw it.
The smile.
It wasn’t big or showy—not the kind Buck wore when he was trying to charm a room—but there was a flicker of something so unmistakably familiar that Hen felt her mouth twitch in response.
The Buckley smile, she thought. There it is.
Not a copy. Not quite. But something in the angle, the quiet sincerity, the way it lit up just one side of his face—it was there.
Subtle.
But it hit.
Hen smiled back. “Welcome to the 118, Ethan.” He nodded. “Thanks. Glad to be here.” And Hen, surprisingly, believed it. Buck clapped a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “Give me two—gonna go throw on my gear.”
And just like that, he was off, jogging toward the locker room with the kind of urgency that had nothing to do with an emergency. Just… Buck, being Buck. Ethan hovered near the bottom of the stairs, watching him go with a soft, bewildered kind of smile. Hen nodded toward the loft above. “C’mon. Let’s show you where the snacks are. That’s half the tour.”
Ethan followed them up to the common area, eyes flicking over every framed photo and dry-erase board and shelf of battered mugs like he was taking a quiet mental inventory. Ravi struck up small talk along the way—easy things. How long Ethan had been in LA. What part of campus he was near. Whether he preferred east coast or west coast bagels.
Hen mostly listened.
Watched, too.
He was quieter than Buck, yeah. But not tense. Just… present. There was a deliberateness to the way he spoke, like he didn’t waste words, and didn’t mind silence when it sat between sentences. That was a language Hen could understand.
She was halfway through pointing out the rotating stash of leftover takeout in the fridge when the station bell rang—short, sharp, unmistakable. Bobby’s voice came through clear. “Probable structure fire. Let’s roll.”
“Duty calls,” Chim said, already pivoting toward the stairs.
Hen turned just in time to see Buck reappear from the hallway, pulling on his jacket mid-stride. He looked toward Ethan with a half-apologetic shrug, already moving. “Rain check on the tour?” Before Ethan could answer, the rest of the team was already piling into the engine bay. Hen gave Ethan a quick clap on the shoulder. “Guess that makes me your guide today.” Ethan blinked. “You’re not going?”
“I’m man behind this shift,” she said, jerking a thumb toward the rig. “Means I stay back, keep things running while they’re out.”
He nodded slowly, watching as the truck roared to life.
Hen followed his gaze.
Then turned back to him with a small smile.
“Alright,” she said. “You want the sanitized version or the real 118 tour?”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Let’s go with real.” Hen’s grin widened. “Good answer.”
The station had settled into that particular kind of stillness that came just after sundown—when the light overhead turned soft and the quiet felt almost suspended in midair. It had been about forty-five minutes since the rig pulled out, sirens fading into the dusk.
Hen and Ethan stood just outside the storage room, a line of low fluorescents humming gently above them. She’d shown him most of the place by now—the equipment bays, the med carts, the tool compartments built into the engine itself. He’d been curious without being overbearing, asked thoughtful questions, and listened like every word might be important later.
Now they were near the duty board, where the laminated shift rotations and gear checklists hung neatly under magnet clips. Hen tapped one of the columns lightly.
“If you take the volunteer spot,” she said, keeping her voice low, “you’d help out with inventory checks, refills, equipment sanitizing, and station logs. We also might have you handle the occasional paperwork audit. Nothing too flashy, but the kind of stuff that keeps the wheels from falling off.”
Ethan nodded, arms folded loosely across his chest. “No hazing rituals, right?” Hen raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “You volunteering for one?”
He blinked. “Absolutely not.”
She smirked. “Good. We’re too tired for theatrics, anyway.” She moved over to the med cart, opening one of the drawers with a soft click, then gestured toward the supply bins nearby. “There’s a rhythm to it, once you’re in. Reordering meds. Restocking trauma kits. The more you learn, the more you’ll recognize what goes missing first.” Ethan stepped closer, eyes scanning the drawers. “You guys really let volunteers get into this level of detail?”
“Depends on the volunteer,” Hen replied. “And the level of trust.”
He nodded again, but slower this time. “Makes sense.” She glanced over at him, watching as his gaze flicked toward the bay doors, where a few orange streetlamps outside cast a hazy glow through the glass.
“You’re still thinking about it,” she said.
“I am,” he admitted. “I mean, it sounds good. It feels good. I just…”
Hen didn’t push.
After a moment, Ethan added, “I’ve never really… had a place like this. Not just the building. The… everything.” Hen leaned a hip against the cart, arms crossed loosely. “Well, you wouldn’t be the first person to find themselves here by accident. Or the first to figure out this place makes more sense than anywhere else.”
He looked at her.
There wasn’t a smile, exactly, but the corner of his mouth twitched like it wanted to be one.
“Can I ask,” he said quietly, “if someone wasn’t planning to go full firefighter route… would this still be worth it?”
Hen held his gaze for a moment. Then nodded.
“Absolutely,” she said. “Because it’s not about where you end up. It’s about showing up. Learning the work. Carrying some of the weight, even for a little while.”
Ethan looked down, hands in his pockets now. He was quiet, but it didn’t feel like retreat.
It felt like momentum.
Hen’s phone buzzed in her back pocket, sharp in the quiet. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
Chim: Structure fire’s spreading. Gonna be a while.
How’s it going there?
Hen thumbed back a reply with half a smile.
Hen: All good here. Kid’s solid.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket and turned toward Ethan again.
“You’re planning on med school, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Biology major, pre-med track. I’ll probably graduate in December, if I keep on pace.”
“Smart,” Hen said, nodding approvingly. “I went down that road, too. Sort of.”
Ethan’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You did?”
“I was already working as a paramedic,” she said. “About four years ago, I decided to try med school. Thought maybe I wanted to take it further, make it official. So I went for it.”
He looked at her with interest. “What happened?” Hen shrugged lightly. “Timing wasn’t right. Family stuff, work balance—it just didn’t line up. I pulled out in my third year.” She paused for a beat, then added, “But honestly? I don’t regret trying. Even stepping back taught me a lot. And being a paramedic gave me a kind of real-world education that most people don’t get in a lecture hall.” Ethan tilted his head, curious now.
“I’m not saying this place has to be your calling,” she continued, voice calm and clear. “But being here? Helping out? You’d be surprised what kind of experience you’ll pick up. It might not look like med school on paper, but it’ll still teach you about people, crisis, instincts. And all of that makes a difference later.”
Ethan nodded slowly, something thoughtful flickering in his eyes. “Yeah. I guess… that’s the part you can’t study.”
“Exactly.”
Hen watched him take it in. No rush. No pressure. Just a kid figuring out what the next few steps looked like—and maybe starting to realize that not every path needed to be mapped out ahead of time.
“Anyway,” she said with a small smile, “you’re already asking the right questions. That’s half the job.”
He didn’t smile in return—but his expression softened, and Hen could see that something about the moment had landed.
Settled.
The silence broke again—this time not from a phone buzz, but the crackle of the station radio. Bobby’s voice came through, clipped and calm but with an edge Hen recognized instantly.
"Man behind, 118, you’re needed on-scene. Secondary explosion. Multiple injuries—possible MCI."
Hen froze for a breath. Just one.
Then she was moving.
“Damn it. Grab your stuff,” she told Ethan, already pulling open a nearby cabinet for her gear. “You’re coming with me.”
Ethan blinked. “Wait—what?”
“I can’t leave you here alone, and I don’t have time to call someone in.” She shoved a responder vest into his hands. “So unless you want to sit in the cab doing nothing, I need to know—do you have CPR training?”
He nodded quickly. “CPR, first aid, AED certified. I’ve done some basic trauma drills. Campus EMT work, too.” Hen gave a tight nod, eyes scanning him for hesitation and finding none.
“Alright. Listen carefully. You do exactly what I say. You stay out of any fire zones. No heroics. You help with triage if we’re short on hands. That’s it.”
He swallowed. “Got it.”
She was already halfway to the bay doors, keys in hand.
“Then let’s go.”
Ethan pulled the vest over his hoodie as he followed. The weight of the situation was written in his posture—upright, alert—but he wasn’t panicked.
Not rattled.
Just ready.
Hen threw open the cab door to the utility truck, glancing back one last time.
“You’re officially acting with the 118. Temporarily,” she added, already climbing in.
Ethan slid into the passenger seat without another word. The garage doors rumbled open. And they rolled into the night.
The air smelled like chemicals and heat. Ethan hadn’t even made it out of the truck before the smoke hit him—thick, bitter, and clinging to the back of his throat. The flames were mostly under control, from what he could tell, but the damage had already been done. One side of the warehouse was blown out, steel siding crumpled like paper. Somewhere nearby, a propane tank hissed with residual gas, and distant sirens layered over the shouts of personnel coordinating triage. Hen’s voice cut clean through the chaos. “Stay close. Head on a swivel.”
Ethan nodded, sticking right behind her as they weaved through debris and blinking red strobes. The reflective vest she’d handed him felt stiff and too big, but it was the least of his concerns.
They rounded the side of a scorched engine, and Bobby was already there—clipboard in one hand, radio in the other, giving orders with that sharp, grounded calm that Ethan recognized from Maddie’s stories. He turned when he saw them, relief and irritation warring behind his eyes.
“Hen,” Bobby said, voice tight, “tell me you didn’t bring the kid to an active MCI.”
Hen didn’t flinch. “I wasn’t leaving him alone at the station, and I needed another set of hands. He’s trained. CPR, first aid, AED certified. Campus EMT work. He knows what he’s doing.” Bobby glanced at Ethan, then back to Hen. “You should’ve radioed.”
“There wasn’t time.”
A beat passed—long enough for Ethan to feel the weight of Bobby’s stare shift to him directly.
“You understand this isn’t a ride-along,” Bobby said. “You’re not here to observe. If you’re on this scene, you’re another set of hands. That means following orders. No improvising. No going off-script. You stay in the safe zone and you follow Hen’s lead at all times.”
Ethan nodded, voice steady despite the noise around them. “Understood, sir.” Bobby looked at him for another second—just long enough to make sure he meant it. Then he turned, pointing down the row of triage tarps where Chim and a few others were working. “We’ve got civilians pulled from the southeast corner. Minor burns, some crush injuries. Go.”
Hen was already moving.
Ethan followed without hesitation.
Chimney looked up from where he was triaging a teenager with a cut across his brow. The second his eyes landed on Ethan, they narrowed.
“Uh—Hen?” Chim said, jerking his chin toward Ethan. “Why does the kid look like he’s about to start handing out tourniquets?”
“No time for the long version,” Hen said, already kneeling beside their assigned patient—a man in his late forties, burned across one arm and groaning through gritted teeth. “Secondary blast pulled me in. He’s with me.”
Chim blinked but didn’t argue. Ethan dropped to the opposite side of the man, slipping on gloves with practiced efficiency. The patient’s left arm was an angry red from shoulder to wrist—clearly burned—but it was the unnatural angle of the elbow that made Ethan’s stomach clench. Dislocated. Badly. Hen was already unzipping the trauma kit. Ethan glanced at Chim. “Do we know where Buck is?”
Chim shook his head. “Haven’t seen him since the first sweep. He might still be working inside, might’ve looped around the west side for evac. Could mean anything.”
Not exactly comforting.
But there wasn’t time to dwell. The man between them let out another ragged cry as he shifted, the arm hanging loose at his side.
“Okay,” Hen said, calm and focused. “We’ve got surface burns, second degree, maybe deeper. And that shoulder’s out. Transport’s delayed—we’re still waiting for the second ambulance rotation.”
Ethan nodded. “I can do it.” Hen looked at him. “You’ve done reductions before?”
“Yeah. Campus clinic rounds. Usually it was dislocated knees, shoulders, a few ankles—mostly drunk kids trying to play Ultimate Frisbee on the quad.” He paused. “This is a little more serious, but the technique’s the same. If he’s stable and you can give him something for the pain…”
Hen didn’t hesitate. “Hold pressure. I’ll dose.” Ethan kept a steady hand on the man’s good shoulder as Hen administered a small amount of morphine from her kit. The man clenched his jaw, eyes brimming, but nodded through the pain.
“Okay, Ethan,” Hen said, meeting his eyes. “When you’re ready.”
Ethan took a breath.
He braced the man’s wrist gently, using his other hand to guide the humerus. Carefully, slowly, he lifted and rotated the arm in a practiced motion. The angle was precise—controlled but firm. The patient hissed out a cry—
—and then a pop.
The joint slid back into place with a sickening, but relieving shift. The man let out a long, broken exhale and slumped back against the tarp, dazed but grateful. Hen pressed a hand to his shoulder. “You’re good. It’s in. We’ve got you.” She glanced over at Ethan, her nod small but solid. “Nice work.” Ethan blew out a breath, only then realizing how tight his chest had been. He didn’t respond right away.
But the warmth in Hen’s voice—quiet and proud—landed harder than he’d expected. And for the first time all night, he felt something settle inside him.
Not adrenaline.
Not nerves.
But purpose.
The tarp under his knees was smeared with ash and blood. They moved fast—Hen calling out injuries, Ethan responding with gauze, pressure, splints. Their patient list grew by the minute: a man with a suspected concussion who couldn’t recall his name; a woman with shrapnel in her calf; a teenager with burns up the side of her neck, quiet and shocky.
Some of them cried.
Some didn’t say a word. Ethan’s gloves were slick with sweat beneath the latex. His back ached. His knees were burning. But every time he looked at Hen—sharp, efficient, utterly unshaken—he found a second wind.
They’d just finished wrapping a deep gash across a man’s forearm when a firefighter stumbled over to the edge of the triage zone, holding pressure to a nasty scrape on his temple. Hen looked up. “You good?”
“Just need a wrap,” the firefighter said, voice hoarse. “Still got three people unaccounted for. One might be trapped in the west stairwell.”
Hen nodded and gestured for Ethan to grab gauze. They cleaned the wound, taped it fast, and the guy was up and gone before Ethan could even ask for a name. And through it all, Ethan couldn’t stop glancing toward the wreckage. Still no sign of Buck.
He knew it wasn’t helpful—not now. Worrying didn’t change fire behavior or make radios work faster. But it clawed at the edges of his focus anyway, sharp and persistent.
He’s fine, he told himself. He’s done this a thousand times. He’s with a team.
He passed Hen another trauma pad, nodding as she motioned toward a woman with a cracked rib and light facial bruising. He crouched to take her vitals, voice calm and reassuring. But even as he spoke, his eyes flicked back—again—to the warehouse.
Still nothing.
Still no Buck.
He heard it first.
A voice crackling over the nearest handheld radio—muffled, distant, but urgent.
“…possible entrapment confirmed. West stairwell, lower landing. One firefighter down. Requesting immediate extraction team.”
Hen froze for half a breath. Then grabbed her comm from her belt.
“Say again?” she barked into the mic.
“Repeat—one firefighter trapped. Structural instability in the stairwell. ID confirms it’s Buckley.”
Ethan’s heart stopped.
Hen didn’t react for a full second. Then: “Copy that. What’s his status?”
“Conscious. Breathing. No visual on injuries yet—secondary collapse may have pinned his leg.”
Hen turned sharply toward Bobby, who had already begun barking orders to Chim and another crew, assembling a rescue team at the rig. But Ethan didn’t hear any of it.
He couldn’t.
Buck.
The word repeated in his head like a hammer blow. Pinned. Trapped. Conscious—but for how long? He stood frozen for a beat, watching as Chim sprinted past, hauling gear. Hen turned, catching Ethan’s stare. Something flickered in her expression—not panic, but the knowledge of exactly what was at stake.
“He’s okay,” she said quickly. “We’ve seen worse. We’ve pulled people out of worse.”
Ethan didn’t speak. His throat was too tight. Hen stepped closer. Not gently—but not harsh, either.
“I need you to focus.”
He blinked. “I am.”
“No. I need you to stay focused. You’re not helping him if you spiral. We still have two patients waiting for transport. You stay on them. That’s your job. Got it?”
Ethan nodded once. Jaw set. Hen watched him for a second longer, then turned and sprinted toward Bobby. Ethan exhaled slowly. Felt the world wobble—and then steady.
He wasn’t a firefighter.
Wasn’t a medic.
But he had two people right in front of him who needed him. And until someone pulled Buck out of that stairwell, this was how he helped. By the time the reserve ambulances arrived, the triage zone looked like the last act of a play—bodies in motion, supplies half-empty, everyone running on muscle memory and adrenaline.
Hen and Ethan had worked through most of the patient list. Transport had picked up nearly everyone who needed it. Only two remained under monitoring. The worst of it, for now, was over. But Ethan’s ears were still tuned for the radio. And when it crackled again, the voice came through clear.
“Buckley’s out. No fractures. Leg was pinned between collapsed rebar and flooring. Might be a sprain, but he’s upright. Lost a boot.”
Ethan let out a breath that trembled at the edges. Hen, beside him, closed her eyes for a beat and muttered, “Thank God.” Moments later, Buck emerged from the smoke-drenched perimeter of the warehouse, leaning against Chim for balance. He looked like hell—sweaty, streaked in soot, helmet tucked under one arm, and noticeably lacking his right boot.
“Hey,” Buck called out hoarsely, voice frayed at the edges but still light. “Somebody please tell me they didn’t torch my other boot. Those were broken in.”
“You lost one boot and your dignity,” Chim said, half-laughing as he helped him to a bench just outside the triage tarp. “You’ll live.”
Ethan stepped forward, falling into place beside Hen almost instinctively. Buck blinked at him, eyes going wide.
“Wait—what the hell are you doing here?”
Hen raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome, by the way.” Buck looked from her to Ethan, confused.
“Bobby called man-behind,” Hen said, crouching as she started rolling up Buck’s pant leg. “I wasn’t leaving him alone at the house, and lucky I didn’t—he’s been an extra set of hands all night.”
Buck’s gaze darted back to Ethan. “Seriously?” Ethan gave a small shrug. “Figured I might as well make myself useful.” Hen gave a knowing look. “He reset a dislocated shoulder, helped manage triage, and only almost passed out once.”
“I did not almost pass out,” Ethan muttered.
Buck chuckled, wincing a little as Hen gently probed the top of his ankle. It was swollen. Angry-looking. No obvious bruising yet, but the skin was tight, and Buck’s breath caught the second Hen applied pressure.
“Too early to say if it’s a sprain,” she said. “But we’ll wrap it and ice it. You’re off that foot for the rest of the night.”
“Great,” Buck muttered. “Guess I’m gonna need a new pair of boots, huh?”
Ethan smiled despite himself. “Birthday gift idea?” Buck pointed a soot-smudged finger at him. “You’re officially on the hook now, you know. Can’t come running into a disaster and then pretend like you don’t care.” Ethan’s grin was small, but real. “Wasn’t planning to.”
Hen straightened up, brushing soot off her vest. “I don’t know what your plans were when you showed up in LA, Ethan. But I’m starting to think we’re not done with you yet.”
Ethan looked between the two of them, heart still pounding, ankle still throbbing, air still heavy with ash and smoke. And for all the chaos—for all the worry and noise—something about this moment felt more right than anything had in a long time.
By the time they got back to the station, the adrenaline had worn off—and the aches had fully arrived. Buck was limping slightly but upright, one crutch under his arm, his missing boot replaced by a makeshift ace wrap and a borrowed station sock. His curls were still damp from a quick shower, his cheeks tinged pink from the residual heat of the fire and the ice pack now strapped to his ankle.
He looked… fine. Mostly.
And Ethan couldn’t stop checking. Hen caught him doing it for the third time as they passed through the kitchen.
“He’s okay,” she said under her breath, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “The fire didn’t break him. You’re allowed to blink.”
Ethan gave a faint huff, but the corners of his mouth twitched. Bobby had given the all-clear for Buck to stay behind while the rest of the shift wrapped up. With Hen taking his place on the rig for any residual calls, that left Buck stuck in the man-behind role for the rest of the night. Which, apparently, meant one thing.
“So,” Hen said, dropping her gear bag near the couch, “you bringing out Clipboard Buck or what?”
Chim, passing through with a banana and two granola bars, groaned dramatically. “Don’t do that to the kid. He’s been through enough.” Buck scowled. “It’s not torture.”
“It’s definitely something,” Chim muttered.
“I’m just efficient,” Buck insisted, dragging himself toward the nearest recliner.
Ethan raised a brow, amused. “Clipboard Buck?” Hen sank into the armchair across from him. “It’s a whole personality. Color-coded task charts. Laminated checklists. Probably has an emergency label maker stashed somewhere in his locker.”
“I don’t have a label maker,” Buck said, then paused. “Anymore.”
Chimney pointed accusingly. “You used to label the salt and pepper shakers, Buck.”
“Okay,” Ethan said, settling onto the arm of the couch with a grin. “Now I have to see it.”
Buck narrowed his eyes but couldn't hold back a reluctant smile. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Organization is an art form.” Hen reached over and mock-patted Ethan’s hand. “If he starts alphabetizing the rig compartments, just back away slowly.”
Ethan chuckled, finally letting himself sink into the rare calm of the firehouse. The jokes, the warmth, the lightness—it all settled around him like a favorite sweatshirt. He didn’t know if this was his forever. But tonight, it felt close enough.
He’d barely started laughing along with the others—still picturing a younger Buck earnestly labeling a box of rubber gloves—when Bobby’s voice cut gently through the room.
“Ethan?”
He turned. Bobby stood in the doorway to his office, expression unreadable.
“Can I see you for a minute?”
Ethan’s heart skipped.
Hen shot him a quick glance. Encouraging. But it didn’t stop the nervous twist in his stomach as he pushed himself to his feet and followed Bobby into the office. The door clicked shut behind them.
Ethan stood near the filing cabinet, unsure where to put his hands. He half-expected a lecture. Maybe not from Hen, but from the captain? Yeah. Totally fair.
“I know I wasn’t supposed to be—”
“You did good tonight.”
Ethan blinked. “Wait. What?”
Bobby looked up from behind the desk, gaze steady.
“You were calm. Smart. You didn’t panic, and you didn’t push past your limits. That’s not nothing, especially in a situation like we had tonight.”
Ethan shifted slightly. “I just… did what I could.”
Bobby nodded. “Exactly.”
There was a pause as he leaned back in his chair, hands clasped lightly.
“Do you know what CERT is?”
Ethan blinked. “The Community Emergency… something?”
“Response Team,” Bobby supplied. “CERT volunteers are trained to assist in disasters—earthquakes, structure collapses, mass casualty incidents. They don’t fight fires or go into danger zones, but they support field teams. Triage, logistics, crowd control, basic medical assistance.”
Ethan straightened a little. “So… like what I was doing tonight?”
“Exactly what you were doing tonight,” Bobby confirmed. “The LAFD partners with the program. It’s a two-week training course. If you’re interested, I’d be happy to put in a word.”
Ethan stared at him.
“Volunteering at the station’s still on the table,” Bobby added. “But CERT would give you structure. Credentials. Experience. Not just shadowing. Doing.”
Hen’s words echoed in Ethan’s mind.
It’s not about where you end up. It’s about showing up.
He swallowed, then nodded. “I’d like that.” A smile tugged at the corner of Bobby’s mouth.
“Good. I’ll get the paperwork started.”
Ethan let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Thank you.”
“You earned it,” Bobby said simply. “Now go enjoy the rest of your night off-duty. Clipboard Buck’s got a to-do list waiting for you.”
Ethan grinned. “He already threatened me with a laminated binder.” Bobby chuckled, waving him toward the door. And for the first time all night, Ethan left the office with his shoulders squared and something solid under his feet.
He stepped out of Bobby’s office into the hum of the firehouse—muted now, with the energy settled into a comfortable lull. Chim was halfway through a cup of tea. Hen had her feet propped on the table, flipping through something on her phone. Buck was… reorganizing the condiments in the kitchen.
“Don’t say it,” Buck muttered without looking up.
Ethan smirked and leaned against the wall just outside the rec room, finally fishing his phone from his pocket.
Three unread messages.
He opened the thread.
Maddie: how’s it going at the station?
everything okay?
text me when you get a second
He winced, thumb already flying.
Ethan: sorry—just saw these. all okay. got pulled to a call with hen
helped with triage. bobby offered to recommend me for CERT
A pause.
Typing bubble.
Maddie: you okay?
Ethan: yeah. tired. but it felt right.
Another beat passed.
Maddie: we’ll talk tomorrow
i’m proud of you
Ethan stared at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering above the screen. Then he locked it, slipped the phone into his pocket, and quietly smiled. Buck called from the kitchen, waving something laminated. Ethan sighed—but his smile stayed. And he walked toward it.
The alarm went off again just after midnight—low and steady. Another call, but this one didn’t carry the chaos of the earlier explosion. From what Hen said, it was a minor fender bender out near Silver Lake. Nothing high-risk. Just clean-up and standard checks.
The team suited up quickly, the mood lighter now. Chim half-joked about bribing the universe with baked goods, and Hen tossed Ethan a casual, “Don’t let him reorganize the whole kitchen,” as she passed Buck. Buck raised a hand like he’d been personally attacked.
Then they were gone.
Leaving the station quiet again. Ethan hovered by the edge of the kitchen until Buck waved him in from his perch on a barstool, an ice pack strapped around his ankle.
“Alright,” Buck said, gesturing to the cabinets, “we’re reorganizing. Condiments to the top shelf. Spices left of the stove. Anything older than Jee—trash it.”
Ethan opened the first cabinet and pulled out a bag of rock-solid marshmallows. “These might predate sliced bread.”
“Congratulations,” Buck said. “You just saved someone from a broken tooth.”
They worked in tandem—well, Buck instructed while Ethan moved. Occasionally, Buck pointed with the end of a wooden spoon, acting like it was some kind of scepter of order.
“Leave the bread out,” Buck added after a while. “We’ll make grilled cheese or something when you’re done.”
Ethan glanced over. “Midnight grilled cheese?”
“Late-night firehouse tradition.”
Ethan smiled faintly, organizing the dry goods. After a quiet beat, he said, “I was worried about you. Earlier.” Buck looked up, eyes narrowing slightly with a grin. “You were worried about me?” Ethan rolled his eyes. “I’m allowed to care. You were stuck in a stairwell.” Buck chuckled. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“You came out missing a shoe.”
“Boot.” Buck corrected, pointing the spoon at him again. “And I maintain it was a noble sacrifice.”
Ethan snorted but said nothing more. Just let the silence fall between them again—comfortable, now. Buck’s phone buzzed on the counter. He picked it up. The light from the screen softened the edge of his features. The smile that crossed his face was quiet. Almost sad. He didn’t respond right away. Just read.
Then read it again.
Ethan glanced at him, catching the shift in his posture. The way his shoulders dropped, the way his thumb hovered above the screen like there was something heavy in the message. Buck caught him looking and gave a small, sheepish shrug.
“It’s just a text,” he said.
“From…?”
Buck glanced back down at the screen. “Eddie.”
Ethan waited.
Buck exhaled slowly. “He’s in El Paso. With Chris. Just... checking in.” There was something about the way he said it. Something in the way his eyes didn’t lift from the phone, even after the message had dimmed.
“You miss them,” Ethan said softly.
Buck gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
“That it?”
Buck looked up, offered a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“That’s the story. I miss my best friend. And his awesome kid.”
Ethan didn’t press. But he wasn’t convinced that was all there was. Some truths didn’t come out in a single conversation.
Some took time.
So he just nodded and went back to organizing, letting the silence settle again. And Buck sat there, phone resting on the counter, eyes distant—like he was still holding onto the sound of a voice he hadn’t heard in a while. Ethan closed the cabinet door with a soft click.
“Tell me about them,” he said.
Buck blinked. “What?”
“Eddie and Chris,” Ethan clarified, leaning a hip against the counter. “You always get this… look when you talk about them. So go on. What’re they like?”
Buck was quiet for a moment, as if weighing the request. Then, slowly, a smile ghosted back onto his face—this one more real, softened at the edges with memory.
“Eddie and I met on the job. He transferred into the 118 from Texas. First shift together was a disaster. Didn’t get along at all.” He chuckled. “But then we pulled a live grenade out of a guy’s leg, and—well. You bond fast over that kind of thing.”
Ethan raised his eyebrows. “That’s… not where I thought that story was going.”
“Oh, it gets better.”
Buck leaned forward, propping his elbows on the counter.
“I met Chris not long after. He was seven. Smart, sweet, called me Mr. Buck for all of about five minutes before deciding I was his favorite person. We’ve been inseparable ever since.”
Ethan could hear it in his voice now—the fondness, the ache, the everything wrapped up in that one thread of their history.
“We’ve had a few years,” Buck continued, quieter now. “The tsunami hit LA not long after I met them. Chris and I were together when it happened. We got separated from everyone, and each other, for hours. He was so brave.” A pause. “Eddie got shot, about two years later. Right in front of me. Sniper hit.”
Ethan’s stomach turned slightly, but Buck didn’t pause long enough for sympathy.
“And then there was me,” he added lightly. “Lightning strike. Died for three minutes and seventeen seconds. Or so I’m told.”
Ethan blinked. “Wait—you—”
“Yeah.” Buck gave a small shrug, like it was no big deal. “Came back, obviously.”
Ethan exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “You’re all—just walking trauma magnets.” Buck laughed, full-throated and genuine. “That’s not even the half of it.” His expression dimmed again, just slightly.
“But through it all, the three of us—we were kind of a unit. We got each other through it. Always.”
Ethan watched as Buck toyed absently with the edge of the ice pack strap around his ankle.
“Some stuff happened last year,” Buck said. “Chris went to live with Eddie’s parents in El Paso. Eddie couldn’t take the distance anymore, so he moved out there a couple months ago. Said he needed to reconnect with Chris.”
“And how’s that going?”
Buck’s smile was small, but there was real warmth there. “Seems like it’s going well. They’re taking it slow. One day at a time.”
Ethan nodded.
Buck looked up.
“Why’d you want to know?”
Ethan shrugged. “Because you miss them. And because talking about them makes you light up.” Buck didn’t say anything to that. But the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. And this time, he didn’t look so far away.
Buck was perched on one of the barstools, right foot carefully elevated on a second one, an ice pack strapped to his ankle. He was directing Ethan around the kitchen like some kind of grilled cheese general—lightly bossy, definitely smug.
“Careful with that pan,” Buck warned. “It’s the good one. Hen swears she can tell when it’s been scratched.”
Ethan rolled his eyes and flipped the sandwich anyway. They were just settling into the silence when the side door creaked open.
“I swear, if that limp of yours is worse than you said—”
Buck didn’t even look up. His mouth tugged into a grin. “Hi, Athena.” The voice that followed the door belonged to a woman who didn’t need to announce herself. Athena Grant-Nash strode into the kitchen like she’d built it. LAPD jacket half-zipped, badge at her hip, presence larger than the doorway could contain. Her expression was all sharp lines and soft edges—warmth and exasperation balanced in equal measure.
“I heard about the explosion,” she said, already narrowing her eyes at Buck’s ankle. “And I had a feeling you’d downplay it.”
Buck raised both hands, palms out. “Technically, I said I was fine.”
“You were trapped in a stairwell, Evan.”
“I walked out of it—”
“Hobbled,” Ethan muttered helpfully.
Athena shot him a look—but it wasn’t sharp. If anything, she looked... amused.
“And you must be Ethan,” she said, stepping fully inside.
He nodded, a little startled. “Uh—yeah. Hi.”
“I’m Athena. Buck’s firehouse mom.” She crossed the room and offered her hand with the kind of grip that made you feel like she was already evaluating your life choices.
Ethan shook it. “Nice to meet you.”
“She basically adopted me,” Buck added from behind her. “Along with Bobby. I come with joint custody.”
“And a tendency to lie about injuries,” Athena muttered, but her eyes softened as she turned back to Buck. “That ankle looks worse.”
Buck frowned down at it like it had personally betrayed him. “Hen thinks it’s just a sprain.” Athena gave him a look. “And what do you think?”
“I think it hurts.”
“Then sit still,” she said, swatting him lightly on the shoulder before grabbing one of the grilled cheese halves off the cooling rack.
“Hey!” Buck protested.
She ignored him. Took a bite. Chewed. Nodded approvingly.
“Alright,” she said to Ethan. “You’ve got some survival instincts. Good.”
“Thanks,” he said, unsure if it was a compliment or a threat. Maybe both.
Athena settled into a lean against the counter, studying Ethan with the same quiet focus she’d had walking in. “You settling in okay?” He nodded. “Trying. Everyone’s been really kind.”
“That’s because they like you,” she said plainly. “Takes a lot to earn their trust. But once you do… you’ve got it.”
Ethan swallowed. “That means a lot.” Athena gave him one last, long look—one that seemed to reach deeper than just the surface—and then gently tapped her knuckles on the counter.
“Well. Just wanted to lay eyes on this one,” she said, tilting her head toward Buck. “Make sure he wasn’t pulling a ‘Buck classic’ and trying to walk off a sprain.”
“I’m not that predictable,” Buck argued.
“Buck, you once hid a cracked rib because you didn’t want to miss karaoke night.”
Ethan blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Don’t encourage her,” Buck said weakly.
Athena smiled. “Anyway. You two behave. I’ve got patrol 'til 0700.” She turned toward the door but paused before leaving, glancing back at Ethan. “Glad you’re here.” And just like that, she was gone. No drama. No fuss. Just the echo of her presence lingering like a protective pressure in the air. Buck let out a long breath.
“She always like that?” Ethan asked.
Buck smiled around the bite of grilled cheese he finally managed to claim.
“Yeah,” he said. “Thank God.”
Buck had just settled back onto the barstool, grilled cheese in hand and his swollen ankle resting awkwardly on a second stool, when his phone buzzed across the counter.
FaceTime – Eddie Diaz
He stared at it for a second too long.
“You gonna get that?” Ethan asked from the sink.
Buck nodded slowly, like it had taken him a moment to register. “Yeah. Just surprised.”
He swiped to answer.
Eddie’s face came into view first, sun-warmed and framed by an open stretch of sky. Looked like he was out in the backyard.
“Still alive, I see,” Eddie greeted, smirking. “Maddie said you sprained something.”
“Ankle,” Buck replied. “Hen’s already being dramatic about it.”
“I see,” Eddie said, clearly unconvinced. “Because Maddie’s text had ‘entrapment’ and ‘limping like a stubborn idiot’ in it.”
Buck huffed a small laugh. “Sounds like her.” Before Buck could say anything else, Eddie adjusted the angle of the phone. A second voice came in—lower than Buck remembered.
“Hey, Buck.”
Buck blinked.
Chris.
There he was, half-shadowed by the deck awning behind him, curls a little longer, frame a little broader, but it was the voice that really caught Buck off guard. It was deeper. Fuller. Still Chris—but not the kid who’d left. Buck sat up straighter, blinking like he had to recalibrate what he was seeing. “Hey, buddy.” Chris smiled, but it was tentative. A little awkward. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah,” Buck said softly. “It really has.”
It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen each other at all. Buck had been on a birthday video call last August. Seven months ago. But it had been quick—just long enough to sing happy birthday and wave through the screen. There hadn’t been any one-on-one conversation. No chance to talk. And this—this was already different.
“You sound older,” Buck said. “I mean—your voice.”
Chris grinned, sheepish. “Kinda snuck up on me, too.” Buck let out a breathy laugh. “Makes me feel ancient.”
“Good,” Chris shot back.
Eddie chuckled as he leaned back into frame. “We actually had a reason for the call.” Buck raised an eyebrow. “Besides roasting me?”
“We’re moving back,” Eddie said.
Buck froze.
Chris nodded. “To LA. We’re selling the house in El Paso.”
“We’ve got a few things to fix up first,” Eddie added, “but yeah—we’re coming home.”
Buck blinked, his mouth open just slightly. “You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack,” Chris replied.
Buck didn’t speak for a second. Just sat there, eyes darting between the two faces on the screen. Then he exhaled a shaky breath. “Wow. That’s—”
“We figured you should hear it first,” Eddie said.
“And Maddie said you’d probably cry,” Chris added with a mischievous grin.
Buck gave a snort and wiped subtly under one eye. “Tell her she’s full of it.” They spent a few more minutes talking—light teasing, plans, Chris’s PT schedule, and the heat in El Paso. Buck introduced Ethan briefly, and Chris gave him a polite wave and a curious squint. Eventually, Chris had to sign off for the night. Eddie promised they’d talk again soon.
When the screen finally went dark, Buck let it sit on the counter for a moment, his hand still resting over it like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Ethan said nothing at first.
Then, gently: “You okay?”
Buck nodded—slowly, like the weight of it was still settling. “Yeah.” He swallowed once, gaze fixed somewhere past the kitchen wall.
“That was the first real conversation we’ve had since he left.”
Ethan stayed quiet, but he didn’t look away. Buck’s voice was quieter now. “I’ve seen him, sure—there was a video call on his birthday last year. But it was quick. Loud. A screen full of people singing. This… this was different.”
“Felt like him again.”
Ethan gave a small, understanding nod.
“And they’re coming back,” Buck added, like he needed to say it out loud again. “They’re really coming home.”
Ethan offered a small smile. “That’s a good day, then.” Buck huffed a quiet laugh, brushing a hand across his face again.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it is.”
Ethan leaned back against the counter, sipping the last of his water. The kitchen had gone quiet again, but it wasn’t awkward. Just… settled. Still, something lingered in the air. A curiosity he hadn’t quite been able to shake, even since Buck first brought up Eddie and Chris.
“So,” Ethan said, voice low, “are you sure that’s all there is to you and Eddie?”
Buck glanced up from his stool, brows raising—not defensively, just surprised.
“Wow,” he said, sitting back a little. “You’re the second person to ask me that in the past three months.”
Ethan arched a brow. “Only the second?”
“Well—third, if you count Tommy,” Buck replied, chuckling to himself.
“Who's Tommy?”
“That's a complicated question.”
Ethan nodded slowly, letting that go for now. “So?” Buck exhaled through his nose, stretching out his sore leg. “Eddie’s straight.” That was it. Simple. Practiced.
“Everyone who’s asked,” Buck continued, “Maddie, Tommy—you now—has gotten the same answer.”
Ethan didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded. But quietly—mentally—he filed it away. Because Buck hadn’t said no. Hadn’t denied feelings of his own. Only offered a fact about Eddie. That silence said more than anything else could. Buck looked up again, catching Ethan’s expression. “What?”
“Nothing,” Ethan said, neutral.
Buck narrowed his eyes. “You’ve got the Maddie face.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
Buck grinned. “Means you’re holding onto something you’re not saying.” Ethan offered a lopsided smile and raised both hands. “I plead the fifth.” Buck shook his head, laughing softly.
But the question lingered.
And neither of them quite pushed it away.
Ethan got home a little after midnight. The loft was dark except for the soft ambient light spilling in from Sunset Boulevard, catching faint gold across the polished edges of the glass coffee table. He flicked on one lamp in the corner—warm, low, enough.
He didn’t bother changing, not right away. Just set his keys in the bowl by the door, slipped his shoes off, and crossed to the shelf in the living room. Tucked behind his record collection, just beside the box of old action figures he still couldn’t bring himself to get rid of, was a leather-bound journal.
Black cover. Simple.
He carried it up to the mezzanine, climbed into bed, and opened it to a blank page. He didn’t journal every day. Not anymore. But he still did it enough. It was a habit he’d picked up when he was fifteen. One of his social workers had recommended it—back when he was still bouncing between placements, still getting assigned court-ordered therapy once a week.
The therapist agreed. Told him journaling might help make sense of the things that didn’t always have answers. It wasn’t supposed to fix anything—just give the chaos somewhere to land. And it had helped. It still did. He clicked the pen, stared at the page for a long beat, then began to write.
March 15, 2025
I’m not sure what today was supposed to be.
It started with a run in Venice, and now I’m sitting in a loft I didn’t know belonged to someone I’ve been biologically related to this whole time. I made grilled cheese with my uncle. I watched him FaceTime a kid who isn’t his but clearly belongs to him in every way that matters.
That kid—and his dad—are moving back.
Buck didn’t say it, but I think he’s been holding his breath ever since they left. And now? He looks like he’s finally starting to breathe again.I asked him if there was something between him and Eddie. He said Eddie’s straight.
But he never said he didn’t feel anything.
I don’t think he realizes he left that part unsaid.
It’s strange. I’ve never been part of something like this—something messy and warm and easy. They bicker, and tease, and care so deeply it’s almost dizzying. It’s loud and it’s soft and it’s honest.
And they’ve let me in.
I don’t know what I expected when I knocked on Maddie’s door. But I don’t think it was this.
This strange, unfolding sense of belonging.
There’s still a lot I don’t know—about them, about myself, about what any of this really means.
But right now, it feels like maybe there’s space for me here.
And that’s more than I’ve had in a long time.
He sat back, capped the pen, and looked down at the words, letting them settle for a moment. Then he closed the journal and reached over to click off the lamp. The loft dipped into quiet shadow, city lights still threading faint patterns against the brick walls. Outside, L.A. buzzed in the way it always did. But inside, for tonight, everything felt still.
Not finished. But… okay.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.