Chapter Text
The low buzz of his phone dragged Eddie out of sleep. At first, it barely registered—just part of the background noise of the Texas night. The ceiling fan creaked above him. The distant hum of a car passing on the street. But the vibration persisted, insistent. He cracked open an eye, blinking at the faint glow coming from the nightstand.
Incoming call: Ethan Bennett.
Eddie frowned. It was late. Too late. He sat up, already reaching, already answering.
“Hello?”
There was a pause on the other end, and then the soft sound of someone trying to steady their breath.
“Eddie. I—It’s Ethan.”
The hair on Eddie’s arms stood up. Ethan sounded like he’d been crying. Or like he still was.
“What’s wrong?”
A beat of silence.
“Something happened. There was a fire. At a lab in LA. Some kind of biohazard.”
“What kind of biohazard?” Eddie asked, heart picking up speed.
“Crimean-Congo Hemorrhagic Fever. There was a breach.”
“Jesus Christ.” He stood from the bed without thinking, moving through the room on autopilot, needing motion. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m okay.”
A breath.
“Buck’s okay. Chimney—he was exposed. Hen got hurt. They were trapped for hours. Military sealed the place down.”
Eddie moved into the hallway, footsteps soft against the tile. He glanced at Chris’s door. Still shut. Still safe. His voice dropped. “What happened, Ethan?” The line went quiet again. Just for a moment.
Then, softly:
“Bobby didn’t make it.”
Eddie stopped walking.
“They only had one dose of the antiviral. It was stolen. Athena managed to get it back, just in time for Chim. But Bobby… He was infected too.”
Eddie stared at the wall. Blinked, but didn’t see it.
“By the time they realized, it was already too late. He… he locked himself in the lab. Said goodbye to Athena. And he—he prayed.”
Ethan’s voice cracked.
“He just… laid down. And that was it.”
Eddie gripped the wall to steady himself. His knees wanted to give.
Bobby.
Gone.
“What about Buck?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
“I found him. He’d collapsed from exhaustion, probably grief too. I got him out.”
Eddie closed his eyes, drew in a shaky breath. “Where are you now?”
“Still on-site. Buck’s getting looked at. Athena’s out. Ravi and Karen… they know. I just—” A pause. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
Eddie swallowed. His voice was rough when he answered.
“You did the right thing.”
“I thought Chris should hear it from you.”
He nodded, even though Ethan couldn’t see it. “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay.”
A pause hung between them.
Then:
“I’m so sorry, Eddie.”
Eddie breathed out, a broken exhale that sounded too much like a sob.
“…Yeah.”
Eddie didn’t remember hanging up. He just knew the silence that followed was unbearable. The phone slipped from his hand, landing somewhere on the mattress, screen still glowing faintly in the dark. He collapsed back onto the bed like something inside him had broken loose—like whatever was holding him upright had finally given way.
He clamped a hand over his mouth, desperate to muffle the sound that ripped out of him. A sob cracked through his ribs, and then another, sharp and sudden. He curled inward, arm clutched to his chest like it might hold his heart together.
Bobby was gone.
The thought struck him like a physical blow. He gasped around it, trying to breathe, trying not to believe it—but the image of Bobby’s quiet strength, his steady voice, the way he always knew what to say… it only made the grief worse. Made it real.
He buried his face into the bend of his elbow, shaking with the weight of it. All of it. The guilt, the distance, the fact that he hadn’t been there. That Bobby had died on the other side of the country. Alone, except for a locked door and a steel table. A war drum pounded behind his ribs.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, trembling, wrecked by soundless sobs in the dark. Long enough for the tears to soak the inside of his shirt. Long enough for the ache to settle deep into the marrow of his bones.
Bobby was gone.
And he hadn’t even said goodbye. The silence was broken by a buzz against the sheets. Eddie blinked through the blur of tears, reaching blindly for his phone. The screen lit up with a new message.
Jacob: Everything okay? I heard you on the phone and then… nothing.
Eddie stared at the words for a moment. His throat tightened all over again. He wiped the back of his hand across his face, trying to steady his breathing. Tried to force the grief back down, just enough to function. He couldn’t do this from across the house. Jacob deserved to hear it from him—face to face. His fingers trembled as he typed out a response.
Eddie: Meet me in the kitchen.
He sat up slowly, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes before sliding off the bed. His legs felt unsteady, like the grief had seeped into his bones, but he pushed through it. There were things that needed to be said. Things that hurt—but couldn’t wait.
He crossed the room and stepped into the hallway, the weight of what was coming hanging like a storm in the air. Eddie moved through the dark house like a shadow, padding softly into the kitchen. He flicked on the light over the stove—low, warm, not enough to hurt his eyes. The silence hung heavy, a constant pressure in the air. Grief made everything feel muffled, distant, like the world had shifted just slightly off its axis.
He busied himself with the coffee maker, filling the reservoir, scooping grounds with methodical movements. His hands were steadier than they had any right to be. Maybe it was shock. Maybe muscle memory. Either way, he knew he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep. Caffeine was more of a formality at this point. Footsteps padded down the hall.
Jacob appeared in the doorway a moment later, dressed in an old t-shirt and sweats, hair messy from sleep. He hovered there for a beat, brow creased with concern.
“I heard you,” Jacob said quietly, stepping into the kitchen. “Through the wall. You were on the phone, and then it just… stopped. I heard a thump.”
Eddie didn’t respond at first. He could only guess Jacob had heard the moment his knees hit the floor.
“I just got some bad news,” Eddie said after a long pause, his voice low and rough. “From LA.”
Jacob took a cautious step closer. “Bad?” Eddie nodded, setting the mug down a little too carefully.
“Bobby,” he said. “Captain Nash. The 118’s captain. You met him once or twice, when you visited.”
Jacob’s expression shifted—softening immediately. “Yeah, I remember him,” he said. “Super nice guy. Offered to help me get a few things in order with the Academy, if that's what I chose to do.” Eddie huffed a dry breath that could’ve been a laugh, could’ve been a sob.
“He died tonight,” he said. “On a call.”
Jacob didn’t hesitate. He crossed the kitchen and pulled Eddie into a tight hug, arms wrapping around him without a word. Eddie let himself lean into it. Just for a second.
“Is there anything I can do?” Jacob asked softly.
Eddie pulled back just enough to look at him.
“I think I’m gonna have to go out there,” he said. “Probably in a week. Maybe two. And I’ll need to stay for at least that long.”
Jacob nodded slowly.
“I don’t know if I want to put Chris through all of that,” Eddie continued. “The funeral. Seeing everyone wrecked. I don’t even know where they’re holding it yet. So I may do it solo. Which means…”
“You want me to stay here with Chris,” Jacob finished for him.
“If that’s something you’re okay with.”
Jacob nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. Of course. Whatever you need.” Eddie met his eyes and nodded once, grateful. The coffee pot beeped, breaking the silence between them. Eddie turned to pour himself a cup. He didn’t know what tomorrow was going to look like. But tonight, at least, he didn’t have to carry the weight alone.
Jacob’s eyes drifted past Eddie, toward the hallway—toward the soft glow of a nightlight peeking out from beneath Christopher’s closed door.
“When are you gonna tell him?” he asked gently.
Eddie followed his gaze. His face shifted, something tired and tight drawing across it.
“In the morning,” he said. “No use waking him up now. One of us deserves a good night’s sleep.”
Jacob nodded, but there was a quiet sadness behind it. They both knew Chris would take this hard.
“You want me to be there when you do?”
Eddie sipped his coffee, staring down into the dark liquid for a long moment. Then, quietly: “Yeah. I think I will.” Jacob leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely. The silence stretched between them again—companionable, this time. Heavy with unspoken things, but not unbearable.
“Thanks for coming out,” Eddie said, glancing sideways.
Jacob offered a soft shrug. “You would’ve done the same.” Eddie didn’t argue. He just nodded once, slowly. The clock over the stove ticked on, marking the hours they wouldn’t get back. In the stillness of the house, the hum of grief settled around them like a second skin. And still, down the hall, Christopher slept—blissfully unaware that, come morning, his world was going to tilt just a little more.
The sky was still pale when Eddie knocked softly on Christopher’s door—just past sunrise, the kind of quiet hour where even the birds hadn’t fully committed to their morning songs. A muffled groan came from inside. “It’s so early,” Chris grumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Why are you—?”
He stopped short when he caught sight of Eddie standing there in the doorway. His eyes, still half-lidded from sleep, sharpened at once—taking in the way his father’s shoulders hung heavy, the exhaustion on his face, the red-rimmed eyes that hadn’t seen rest all night. Chris sat up straighter, voice thick with sleep but laced with rising panic. “Did something happen? Is it Buck?”
Eddie immediately shook his head. “No. No, mijo, he’s okay.” He stepped inside just enough to keep his voice low. “But… something did happen. And we did lose someone.” He watched the way Chris straightened, tension locking into his spine like armor. The way he bit the inside of his cheek and blinked hard. Already bracing.
“Come on,” Eddie said gently, nodding toward the hallway. “Let’s go sit on the porch.”
Chris didn’t argue. He knew how his son worked—how being outside, where the world still moved around him, helped him keep himself grounded. Let him hold it together just long enough to hear hard truths, even if the tears came later.
They stepped out into the morning air, the wooden planks of the porch still cool beneath their feet. The scent of lavender and lemongrass from the back garden along the porch hung heavy in the breeze. Dew clung to every leaf, catching the light like little shards of glass. Chris eased down onto the steps, hands loosely clasped. “Who was it?” Eddie took a breath. Held it. Let it go. “It was Bobby.”
Chris froze. He didn’t cry—not right away. Just blinked several times, hard and fast, like he was trying to clear a fog from his eyes. He gave the smallest of nods and drew a long, steadying breath through his nose. Eddie watched him, and something in his chest cracked clean open.
Bobby.
The man who’d helped raise his son when Eddie couldn’t. Who’d stayed when Eddie tried to push everyone away. Who’d helped him navigate the impossible weight of Shannon’s death, who never judged the moments when Eddie had nearly collapsed under it. The one who always, always made time for Christopher—even when it wasn’t easy, even when it wasn’t his responsibility.
He was the grandfather Chris didn’t get from Shannon’s side. The one he should have had from Eddie’s own parents. The one who stepped in without question, without expectation. Eddie swallowed back the fresh burn behind his eyes. He reached over, wrapped an arm around Chris’s shoulders, and gently pulled him in. Chris didn’t resist—just leaned into him, head tucked beneath Eddie’s chin.
They sat there in silence for a long time, listening to the distant hum of waking birds, watching the light change by degrees, and letting the grief settle between them. Not gone. Never gone. But carried. Together.
After a long stretch of quiet, with dew still dripping from the eaves above them and the world just beginning to stir awake, Chris finally spoke again—his voice barely above a whisper.
“How… how did it happen?”
Eddie let out a slow breath, like it would help steady the knot in his chest. He looked out at the yard, watching as the rising sun painted gold across the grass.
“There was a fire,” he said softly. “In a lab, somewhere in LA. It was housing all kinds of dangerous viruses. One of them got released—Crimean-Congo Hemorrhagic Fever.” He glanced at Chris, then back toward the street. “Part of the lab exploded, which put the virus in the air. That’s how they got exposed.”
Chris didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Eddie could feel the tension coiling beside him.
“Chimney and Bobby were both infected,” Eddie went on. “But Chim got hit hard, fast. And Bobby… Bobby didn’t say anything. He knew Chim was worse off, and there was only one dose of the cure. So he… he gave it up. Made sure Chim had a chance.”
Chris blinked a few times, tears tracking silently down his cheeks. “So he chose to die.” Eddie’s throat closed up. He nodded, his voice thick. “Yeah. He chose to give Chim the best chance he could.” Chris wiped at his face, though more tears came to take their place. “Is Chim okay now?”
“Yeah. As far as I know, he's stable. Hen, too. She had a collapsed lung, but they got her through it. Everyone else made it out.”
Chris pulled his legs up a little tighter to his chest, eyes still glistening. “When are we going to LA?” Eddie hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if that’s something you need to go to, mijo.” Chris’s head snapped up. “What?”
“It’s just…” Eddie sighed, pressing his palm against the back of his neck. “It’s gonna be a lot. Emotionally. The funeral, all the people, the grief. It’s gonna be… heavy. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to carry that, too.”
“But I want to be there,” Chris said, voice cracking. “He was important to me too.”
“I know,” Eddie said gently. “And I’m not saying you won’t go. I’m saying I might need to go first. Be there for a while. Help out, see what Buck needs… see what everyone needs.”
Chris didn’t answer right away. His jaw was clenched, and he looked away, blinking hard again. Eddie reached out and touched his shoulder.
“After the funeral, we’ll talk about you flying out. If it feels right, we’ll make it happen. I promise.”
Chris nodded once, reluctantly. “Who’s gonna stay with me?”
“Jacob said he’d stick around,” Eddie said. “Make sure you’re not alone. I wouldn’t go if I didn’t think you’d be in good hands.”
That earned a small exhale from Chris—halfway between a sigh and a resigned laugh. He was still upset, still hurting, but Eddie saw the understanding settle behind his eyes. Chris leaned into him again, and Eddie wrapped an arm around his son’s back, holding on. The sun rose higher, warming the wood beneath them, but neither of them moved. Not yet.
A soft knock echoed from the back door’s frame. Eddie looked up, and Chris turned his head. There, standing just outside the screen door, was Jacob. He wasn’t his usual relaxed self—his posture was careful, unsure. But his voice was gentle.
“Hey. I, uh… I saw you both were already up.” He gave a faint smile, something close to sheepish. “I got breakfast started. Figured it might help.”
The offer hung there, warm and well-meaning. Eddie’s first instinct was to politely decline—his chest still ached, and food was the last thing on his mind. But then his stomach gave a low, audible growl, and beside him, Chris’s did the same. Jacob gave a subtle nod, almost like he’d expected that. “No pressure. Just… thought I’d try.” Eddie exchanged a glance with Chris, who gave a tiny shrug, his expression tired but appreciative.
“Thanks, Jacob,” Eddie said quietly, rising to his feet and brushing dew from the back of his jeans. He extended a hand to Chris, who took it after gathering his crutches close, using Eddie’s grip for balance rather than being pulled upright.
They followed Jacob inside through the back door, stepping into the familiar scent of coffee, warm tortillas, and eggs. Nothing fancy—just something grounding. And maybe that was enough.
The morning air in El Paso was already warming, rising off the sidewalks in visible waves despite the early hour. Eddie stood in the kitchen, coffee cooling in his hand, watching as Chris rinsed out his cereal bowl at the sink. The kitchen felt too quiet, like the house itself was still bracing for news that had already come.
Eddie glanced toward the clock, then toward Chris’s backpack sitting near the door. “You want to stay home today?” he asked gently, not pushing either way. Chris didn’t answer right away. He dried his hands on a towel, staring at the floor like it might hold the answer. “I’m not sure.”
Eddie kept his tone light. “It’s up to you. I’ll call the school if you want. No one would blame you for needing a day.” Chris hesitated, but then said, “It’s one of the program days, right? Tuesday?”
“Yeah,” Eddie nodded. “Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday.”
Chris rubbed at his temple and gave a small nod. “Then I think I’ll go.”
Eddie arched an eyebrow.
Chris clarified, “It’ll keep my brain busy. Better than just… sitting around thinking about it all.”
That made sense. The after-school enrichment program at Chris’s school was something they’d signed up for on a whim back in the fall—mostly project-based learning, hands-on problem-solving, group activities tailored to students who thrived on curiosity more than competition. It wasn’t a full school day, just half-days three times a week, but Chris had taken to it quickly. He’d made a few acquaintances. He liked the independence. It gave him a place to go, until El Paso was in the rearview.
“Alright,” Eddie said, offering a small smile. “Let’s get you there.”
The drive was mostly quiet. The kind of silence that didn’t feel strained, just shared. Outside the car window, the spring sun had baked the landscape into something muted and golden. Chris broke the silence about halfway to the school. “Did you talk to anyone else? Like… Buck?”
Eddie’s hands shifted slightly on the steering wheel. “Just Ethan,” he said. “When he called. Real early. I haven’t spoken to anyone else yet.” Chris turned his head toward him. “Are you gonna call Buck?”
Eddie’s jaw tightened, just for a second. “I don’t know what I’d say,” he admitted, eyes on the road. “I don’t think I’ve figured it out yet.” Chris didn’t press, just nodded slowly.
Before either of them could speak again, the school came into view, a low tan building trimmed in navy blue. A few early arrivals were already climbing out of cars, their backpacks slung low and shoulders slumped with sleepy reluctance. Eddie pulled into the roundabout, shifting the truck into park.
Chris reached for the door handle but paused, knuckles tightening just slightly around the grip. He stared through the windshield at the school—its low, familiar silhouette washed in soft morning sun—then turned back toward Eddie. Without a word, he leaned across the console and hugged him.
Eddie reacted instinctively, startled at first but quick to respond. He wrapped an arm around Chris’s back, anchoring him in the quiet way only a father could.
“I love you,” Chris said softly, his voice low and tight.
Eddie's throat constricted. He managed a breath, then whispered back, “I love you too.” Chris gave him a watery smile before pulling away and stepping out of the car. He adjusted his backpack, took a breath, and walked toward the building. Eddie watched him go—watched the slight hunch of his shoulders, the way he paused before opening the glass side door, the way he finally disappeared inside.
Still, Eddie didn’t move.
The Prius idled quietly, its cabin filled only with the sound of the A/C kicking on and the distant bustle of morning traffic. Eddie remained parked at the curb, fingers wrapped loosely around the steering wheel, staring blankly ahead. Eventually, he reached for his phone. His thumb hovered above the screen as he scrolled slowly through his contacts.
Chimney.
Off the table. There was no universe in which Eddie could ask how he was doing without unearthing the man’s guilt or trauma, not so soon. Not when Chim had nearly died and had barely begun healing.
Hen.
Also off the table. She’d had to be cut open in the field—collapsed lung, reinflation under pressure, likely intubated afterward. There was no way she wasn’t still in the hospital. Possibly unconscious. Possibly in pain. Definitely in recovery. Calling Hen right now would be cruel. Eddie’s finger paused on Buck, but moved on just as quickly. He still didn’t know what he’d say. Still didn’t know how to say anything at all.
Which left… two.
Maddie and Karen.
Maddie was—undoubtedly—navigating her own storm. Chimney had almost died. Their daughter was still a toddler, and another baby on the way. And even though part of Eddie desperately wanted her steadiness, her insight, her voice, he knew better than to ask it of her right now. She didn’t need another weight to carry.
Which left Karen.
She had likely been there, or near. She always was. And even if she was with Hen right now, Karen had a level head. She’d be honest. Compassionate. She wouldn’t crumble if he started to. Eddie hovered a second longer—then tapped her name. The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, she picked up, her voice sharp with alarm.
“Eddie?” Karen’s voice was quick, breathless, already halfway to panic. “God, I—okay, I was going to call you, I just didn’t know if—if you knew yet, or if it should come from me, or from Buck, or—Eddie, I’m so sorry—”
“I know,” Eddie said softly, cutting her off before she spiraled. “Ethan called. Early this morning.”
Karen exhaled, all at once. A beat of silence followed. “Okay. Okay, good.” Another pause. “How are you holding up?”
“I should be asking you that,” Eddie said. “You’ve been in it.”
“Yeah, well,” Karen replied gently, “you know what I mean. It’s different. For you.”
Eddie didn’t argue. He just let the silence stretch a few seconds before answering.
“I’m… still trying to wrap my head around it,” he admitted. “It hasn’t really sunk in yet. I don’t think I’ve even let myself cry.”
His voice cracked slightly at the edge of that last word, but he pressed on. “You’re the first one I’ve talked to since Ethan. I haven’t… reached out to anyone else yet.” Karen’s voice softened. “I’m glad you called.” Eddie nodded, though she couldn’t see it. He let her fill the next pause with her voice.
“Everyone’s stable,” she said, shifting to what she could offer him—clarity. “Hen’s in the hospital. They had to do a field reinflation on her lung, but she’s okay now. Strong. Awake. She’ll be discharged in a few days.”
Eddie closed his eyes, soaking it in.
“Chim’s still admitted too,” Karen continued. “They were worried at first—exposure, fever—but the tests came back clean. Both of them were isolated for a few hours while the lab ran panels. But they’re clear.”
“And Buck?” Eddie asked, more carefully than he meant to.
“He’s home. With Ethan, at Buck’s place,” Karen said. “They left the hospital sometime after sunrise. I haven’t heard from either of them today, but I imagine it’s quiet. Or loud. One or the other.”
Eddie huffed softly—more breath than humor, but close. Karen’s tone softened. “May’s checked in. She’s…holding it together, I think. She’s been checking on Athena for me—giving her space, mostly. Just enough contact to know she’s not totally shutting down.” Eddie nodded again, even though she couldn’t see it. The ache in his chest was heavier now. More real. He swallowed. “Thank you. For telling me.”
“Of course,” Karen replied. “Any time.”
There was a brief rustle on the other end of the line—background movement, clipped voices just out of range. Karen’s voice returned, slightly muffled. “Sorry—one of Hen’s doctors just came in. Wants to talk through her charts.” Eddie straightened slightly in the driver’s seat. “Yeah, of course. Go. I’m glad she’s okay.”
“I’ll call you later,” Karen said. “Maybe Hen will be up to talk by then. If not, I’ll still check in.”
“Thanks,” Eddie said, voice softer now. “Really.”
They said their goodbyes and the line clicked quiet. Eddie sat for a second longer, then unlocked his phone again.
He opened a message to Maddie and typed out a simple line:
Eddie: Heard the news. Ethan called early. Hope you and the kids are okay. Keep me in the loop on Chim, when you can.
He read it twice before hitting send. Short. Not invasive. Just enough. Then his thumb hovered uncertainly over the thread marked Buck. Nothing new. Just a blank input field.
No words came.
Not yet.
He sighed, switching over to his older message threads. Scrolled until he found the one marked Bobby.
Opened it.
The last exchange was from a few weeks ago. He'd texted Bobby about a crockpot of all things. About the time that he was cooking dinner for his parents and Chris, the very same week as Chris's tournament in Lubbock.
Eddie: you ever see those crockpots at Target on clearance? thinking about picking one up.
Bobby: I saw a few. Hamilton Beach isn’t bad. Or Instant Pot, if you want something more versatile.
Eddie stared at it. His eyes burned—subtle at first, then sharper. He blinked a few times, quickly. No tears fell, but they welled, prickling along his lower lash line. A shallow breath stuttered out of him—one of those big ones you take when you’re trying not to cry. He closed the app. Set the phone face-down in the cupholder.
Then he finally pulled the car into gear and eased out of the school lot, merging into the slow rhythm of morning traffic.
Jacob moved through the house with quiet, methodical intent. The TV in the living room was off. The windows were cracked just slightly to let the cross-breeze through. And in the sink, a few forgotten breakfast dishes waited—so he started there. It wasn’t much. But it was something. Something helpful. Something useful.
Eddie didn’t need words. He didn’t need platitudes. What he needed, Jacob figured, was to not come home to clutter. So Jacob rinsed, scrubbed, and wiped things down as the morning sun crept higher into the sky. By the time the front door opened, he had a laundry basket tucked under one arm and the broom leaning against the wall. Eddie stepped inside, moving like someone held together by fraying string.
“I’m gonna crash for a bit,” he mumbled. His voice was gravel—worn out and dulled at the edges. “Been up since the call.”
Jacob nodded. “Go. I’ve got things covered out here.” Eddie managed a grateful glance before shuffling toward his room and quietly shutting the door.
Jacob waited until he heard the muffled creak of bedsprings before he set down the laundry and grabbed his phone. He thumbed through his contacts and tapped one near the top: Ethan.
It rang only once.
Ethan answered in a whisper. “Hey.” Jacob leaned against the counter, keeping his own voice low. “Hey. You sound like you’re trying not to wake someone.”
“I am,” Ethan murmured. “Buck finally crashed a little while ago.”
Jacob didn’t need to ask for details—Ethan offered them anyway.
“He’s been… everywhere. Zoned out. Snapping. Trying to take care of everyone but himself. Anytime he started drifting off, he’d jerk awake like he couldn’t breathe. Got to the point I had to sit near the couch just so he’d believe he wasn’t alone.”
Jacob winced slightly. “Jesus.”
“Yeah.” Ethan sighed. “I’m giving him the morning. Letting him rest, even if it’s shallow.”
There was a pause before Jacob gently asked, “And how are you holding up?” Ethan let out a quiet exhale. “I was just getting close with Bobby. With all of them. It wasn’t just that he was the captain. He made me feel like I belonged. Like I wasn’t just some… stray Buck dragged in.” Jacob nodded, though Ethan couldn’t see him.
“It hurts,” Ethan continued, voice low. “But it hurts more seeing everyone else carry it. I can’t fix it. I can’t fix any of it.”
Jacob swallowed. “I know.”
Another pause, and then Ethan asked, “How’s Eddie?”
“He just went to bed,” Jacob said. “Hasn’t slept since your call.”
Ethan was quiet a moment. “I didn’t want to wake him. I almost waited. But I just… I didn’t want him to hear it from someone else.”
“You did the right thing,” Jacob assured him, firm but kind. “He’d want it to come from someone he trusts. You’re that.”
Ethan didn’t respond right away, but Jacob could hear the way the tension loosened on the other end of the line.
“Thanks,” Ethan finally whispered.
Jacob shifted his weight, leaning harder into the kitchen counter, the phone balanced between his shoulder and cheek. “Eddie’s planning to fly out to LA in the next week or two,” he said, voice low. “He didn’t say it directly, but… I think Chris and I won’t be far behind.”
On the other end, Ethan was silent for a moment—long enough that Jacob might’ve thought he’d fallen asleep sitting up. But then his voice came through, soft and frayed at the edges. “Yeah. That makes sense. They’ll need to be close. All of them.”
“They already do,” Jacob murmured. “This just… rips off the distance.”
There was a faint exhale, the tired kind meant more for grounding than agreement.
“The house is almost ready,” Jacob continued. “We got a lot done this past couple weeks. Eddie’s gonna have to sell a little lower than he hoped, but it’ll go. It’s solid. Clean. Good neighborhood.”
“Doesn’t matter what he gets for it,” Ethan mumbled. “He’s not staying.”
“No,” Jacob agreed. “He isn’t.”
There was another long pause, the kind that didn’t beg to be filled. Then, Ethan’s voice returned, quieter but laced with a faint edge of warmth.
“So… what I’m hearing is our ‘roommate situation’ is sounding more and more like a done deal.”
Jacob huffed softly—just enough breath to count as a laugh. “At this point, I’m starting to think we’re gonna need a lease.”
“Custom welcome mat,” Ethan offered faintly, clearly reaching for something light. “Loft Rules: No dying. No brooding. Take out the trash on Wednesdays.”
Jacob’s smile came slow, but it stayed. “Rule #4: If one of us impulse-buys another rug, we get to vote on whether it stays.”
“Hey—first of all,” Ethan said, half-yawn, half-protest, “I needed that rug.”
“You needed that rug the way Buck needed a third grill.”
A beat passed, and then Ethan let out a real laugh—quiet, tired, but genuine. “Okay. Fair.” Their voices faded for a moment, replaced by stillness. Shared weight across the miles.
“We’ll figure it out,” Ethan said finally, barely above a whisper.
Jacob nodded into the phone. “Yeah. We will.” The silence that settled between them now wasn’t awkward—it was worn in. Familiar. The kind of silence that followed the weight of too many truths and too little rest.
Jacob let out a slow breath, glancing toward the hallway where Eddie’s door remained closed. “You take care of them, alright? Buck. May. Maddie. All of ‘em. I know they’ve got people, but…” His voice dipped, softened. “You’re there.” Ethan was quiet for a second, and when he replied, it was with that same softness. “Yeah. I will. I am.”
There was something in the way he said it—an almost unconscious emphasis. Like the promise wasn’t just about duty, but something personal. Ethan cleared his throat, just barely. “You do the same, alright? With Chris. And Eddie. You’re kinda the glue over there.” Jacob’s voice was quieter now. “Funny… I always thought you were the glue.”
“Well,” Ethan said, tired and warm, “maybe we take turns.”
Jacob smiled at that, eyes falling shut briefly as he leaned against the counter. “We’ll keep tabs. Through each other. Until we’re all back in LA.” There was a heartbeat of pause, and then Ethan replied, lower now, a little rougher around the edges: “Yeah. Let’s do that.” Another stretch of quiet, full of everything neither of them could name just yet. Jacob almost said I miss you. But instead, he said, “Get some sleep, Bennett.” Ethan chuckled—low, a little shy. “Only if you promise to, too. At some point.”
“Eventually,” Jacob said, like a promise and a challenge all in one.
“Bye, Jacob.”
“Later, Ethan.”
Jacob held the phone a moment longer than necessary before ending the call. When the screen went dark, the kitchen felt a little quieter than before—but not empty. He slid the phone back into his pocket and exhaled, letting the silence wrap around him like something worn and familiar.
It had been two days. Forty-eight slow, aching hours since the phone call. Since Ethan’s voice cracked across the line. Since the kitchen filled with coffee and silence. Since the porch felt like the only place to breathe.
Grief hung over the house like humidity—dense and ever-present. It had settled in the corners, in the quiet clicks of the air vents, in the way no one turned on the TV. Everything functioned. But nothing moved.
That night, Chris sat alone at the dining table. The overhead light was on, but dimmed, casting long shadows across the tabletop. A piece of lined paper sat in front of him, already partially filled. His pen hovered for a second before it touched down again.
He didn’t tell Eddie what he was doing. Didn’t need to. His dad was in the shower, and Jacob was somewhere folding laundry. This felt… private. The letter was addressed to Harry—but it was for both him and May. Maybe even for himself.
He wrote slowly, carefully. His handwriting wasn’t perfect, but it was readable. Every few words, he paused—not to think, but to remember.
Hey Harry,
I know things probably don’t make a lot of sense right now. It’s weird how quiet everything feels after something big like this happens. And I know it’s not fair. None of it is.
I wanted to write because… I don’t know exactly what you’re feeling, but I know what it’s like to lose a parent. I lost my mom when I was eight. And even though I don’t remember everything about that day, I remember how everything changed. I remember feeling like something that made the world make sense had just… disappeared.
Bobby was one of those people. For all of us. And especially for you.
Chris paused, swallowed around the tightness in his throat. The pen trembled slightly in his grip.
He continued, slower now.
He always looked out for me when I was at the firehouse. He used to joke that I had more common sense than most grown firefighters. He never talked down to me. Never made me feel like a kid just tagging along.
I remember him giving me his chair once, in the firehouse office. He told me, “You’re the captain now, Diaz.” I asked what that meant, and he said, “It means everyone listens when you speak.” I never forgot that.
Sometimes I think about what it’d be like if I lost my dad. Or… Buck. I don’t know what I’d do. Just thinking about it makes my chest hurt.
His breath hitched. He blinked hard. The words on the page blurred for a second. He wiped at his eyes and kept writing.
So I can’t pretend to know exactly how you feel. But I want you to know that you’re not alone.
You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. None of us do. And if you ever want to talk, even just about stupid stuff—like movies or baseball—I’m here.
He loved you, Harry. I hope you know that.
-Chris
He stared at the letter for a while once it was finished. Didn’t fold it. Didn’t touch it. Somewhere behind him, the bathroom door opened with a creak. Then soft footsteps padded down the hall.
Eddie didn’t say anything at first—he just stood in the doorway, hair still damp, a towel slung around his neck. He saw the paper on the table, the tight lines of his son’s shoulders, the subtle tremble in his hands.
“You okay, kid?” he asked gently.
Chris shook his head once. “No.” Eddie stepped forward, crouching beside him. “Wanna talk?” Chris didn’t answer—but after a few seconds, he leaned over and wrapped his arms around his dad’s neck. Eddie held him close, one hand smoothing over his back. And for a long while, they stayed like that—no words, just breath and grief and the weight of what they’d lost.
Eddie didn’t rush him.
He just knelt there, arms around his son, letting the silence stretch until Chris was the one to break it.
“I was writing a letter,” Chris murmured, voice muffled against Eddie’s shoulder. “For Harry. For you to take. To LA.”
Eddie drew back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes. “That’s a really kind thing to do.” Chris shrugged, looking down at his hands. “I just… I thought maybe it would help. You know? Since… I know what it’s like to lose a parent.” Eddie’s expression softened. He nodded, resting a hand gently on Chris’s shoulder.
“I was trying to remember stuff,” Chris went on, voice trembling now. “About Bobby. From when I was little. He was always there, you know? And I started writing about this time he let me sit in his captain’s chair… and then I started thinking about other things. And they weren’t gone, but they were fuzzy. Like I could see them, but not all the way.”
Eddie stayed quiet, his throat tight.
“It just hit me,” Chris said. “That it’s only been two days, and some of it’s already slipping. And if it’s like that now…” He shook his head. “What if I forget the sound of his voice? What if I forget how he laughed? Or the way he always said hi with my name like it mattered?”
Eddie swallowed around the lump rising in his own chest. “You won’t forget him, mijo.” Chris looked at him, eyes glassy. “But I forgot things about Mom. And I try to remember, but it gets harder.”
Eddie cupped the back of his head gently. “You were seven. And that kind of grief… it’s too big for a kid to carry alone. But this?” He squeezed Chris’s shoulder. “You’re not alone this time. Not with this.” Chris nodded shakily, tears finally slipping down his cheeks.
“We’ll remember him,” Eddie said, voice soft but certain. “Together. Me, you, Buck… everyone. We’ll tell the stories, even when they hurt. That’s how we hold on.”
Chris leaned into him again, smaller than usual, like grief had made him fold in on himself. And Eddie just held him, like he always would. They stayed in that quiet embrace for a while, the room hushed except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rustle of wind through the windows.
Eddie shifted just slightly, just enough to ease back and look at his son. “Hey… you remember when Abuelita broke her hip?” Chris blinked at the sudden shift but nodded. “Yeah.”
“You were what—seven?”
“Almost eight,” Chris murmured, voice still a little thick.
“You spent the whole day with A-Shift, the day after that,” Eddie said, a soft smile beginning to form. “Rode in the engine with us.”
Chris let out a small, breathy laugh. “You guys brought me on every call that day. I felt like an honorary firefighter.” Eddie’s smile grew, just a little. “Bobby made sure you had the best seat in the house.”
Chris’s eyes lit faintly behind the lingering red. “There was that one wreck? That sedan with the smashed-in door. I got to watch you use the jaws of life. Bobby kept me a safe distance back, but he stayed with me the whole time.” He paused, as if playing the memory back in real time.
“He propped me up on the engine step and explained everything,” Chris said, a small grin slipping through. “How the hydraulics worked, what the pressure did. He said you got to use tools that opened up steel like a tin can. That you used them to save people when they couldn’t save themselves.”
Eddie swallowed, his chest tight in a way that wasn’t just grief—it was pride. It was love. “You remember that pretty clearly.” Chris looked down at his hands. “Yeah. I do.”
Eddie reached out, placed a steadying hand on Chris’s back. “See? The little details might get fuzzy sometimes. But the stuff that mattered? The stuff that meant something to you? That stays.” Chris’s lower lip trembled, just for a second. But then he nodded—slow, deliberate. Eddie’s voice dropped softer. “You’re never going to forget him, mijo. Not really. Not the parts that count.”
Chris didn’t speak, but leaned forward again, wrapping his arms around his dad’s shoulders and holding on tight. Eddie let his eyes close. Let himself stay there with him, for as long as Chris needed. And maybe for a little longer than that.
Down the hallway, just beyond the kitchen, Jacob stood still in the open doorway of the laundry room. A half-folded towel hung forgotten in his hands. He hadn’t meant to listen in—not really. He’d just paused when he heard Chris’s voice lift, trembling and raw, followed by Eddie’s softer reply.
Now, he watched in silence as father and son sat wrapped around each other in the low light of the dining room. The letter still sat on the table beside them, slightly wrinkled from where Chris had pushed it away. Neither of them seemed in any rush to move.
Jacob didn’t step forward. Didn’t say anything. He just stood there for a moment longer, heart heavy but warmed by the quiet strength in the room. And then, wordless and careful, he turned back into the hall—letting them have this moment, uninterrupted.
The house had gone still hours ago. Chris had fallen asleep not long after the breakdown at the table, curled under extra blankets, his breathing finally even. Eddie had retreated to his room shortly after, the weight of the day folding him in.
Jacob stayed up, lights dimmed, curled on the living room couch with his phone resting in his lap. The letter Chris had written was still on his mind. So was the sound of Eddie’s voice when he knelt beside his son. He unlocked his phone. Opened Ethan’s thread. Typed.
Jacob: Chris had a rough night. Not sure how to help.
The reply came quicker than expected.
Ethan: He’s lucky to have you.
Jacob breathed out slowly. That didn’t make it easier—but it made it feel a little less like he was failing.
Jacob: How are things over there?
A pause. Then:
Ethan: Buck finally ate something. Just a little.
Still not saying much. Not yet.
Ethan: I think he’s building the wall back up. Prepping the mask.
Said Bobby told him everyone was gonna need him.
Jacob frowned at the screen.
Jacob: And in Buck-speak, that means: take care of everyone else first. Himself last.
Ethan: Exactly.
I’m trying to keep him grounded. Not push too hard.
There was a longer pause this time before the next message appeared.
Ethan: But he’s not okay. Not really.
None of us are, but... he’s hiding it better than he should.
Jacob: You being there probably helps more than he’ll ever say.
Ethan: He hasn’t asked me to leave.
Jacob smiled faintly at that.
Jacob: Then you’re exactly where you need to be.
He set the phone down on his chest for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the silence swell between text tones. This was what holding steady looked like. Even when none of them felt steady at all. The messages paused for a moment—long enough that Jacob figured Ethan had shifted, maybe checked something in the room, or just taken a second to breathe. Then the next message lit up the screen.
Ethan: Hen got discharged today.
They’ve still got her on pain management, and she’s moving slow, but she’s home.
Jacob let out a quiet breath through his nose, relief threading into the weight still sitting in his chest.
Ethan: Chim’s doing better too. They’re saying he might be out before the weekend.
Ethan: The Feds are still being a pain, though. Trying to hold onto Bobby’s body for ‘review’ or something.
Athena’s livid
May’s doing her best to keep things from escalating.
Jacob frowned at the screen, jaw tightening. He could only imagine the hell it was taking for May to stand between her mother’s fury and a system built to stall.
Jacob: That’s cruel. After everything they’ve all been through.
Ethan: Yeah. Maddie’s been trying to help too, but… it’s messy.
Ethan: I’ve babysat Jee a few nights this week. Maddie’s been taking Buck to visit Chim at the hospital. Figured someone should stay back with Jee.
Jacob smiled faintly at the image of Ethan navigating toddler life in the middle of crisis.
Jacob: You deserve a medal for that.
Ethan: She likes stacking things. A lot. It’s like tiny furniture Tetris.
Honestly, it’s helped. Gives me something to focus on.
Jacob’s expression softened.
Ethan: I’ve been inviting May over too. When things get… too heavy with her mom.
She just sits and does homework or talks. We don’t really do anything. Just… let it breathe.
Jacob read those lines twice. Let them settle.
Jacob: Sounds like you’re doing more than you think.
Holding space. That counts.
A pause. Then:
Ethan: It’s the worst of it right now.
But every day’s a little better. Not good. Not yet. But better.
Jacob let the words linger, thumb hovering before typing back.
Jacob: Same here.
Jacob: Not much else on my end. Not yet.
Chris tonight was the first real wave. But… I think there’ll be more.
A few seconds passed.
Ethan: I'll get the first message when it happens. I’m sure of it.
Jacob smiled faintly, tired but warm, the glow of the phone the only light left in the room.
Jacob: Yeah. Probably.
The typing bubble appeared again, paused, then vanished. The silence after felt full—not heavy, but steady. Like a rope pulled taut across distance, tying one home to another. Jacob set the phone on the arm of the couch and leaned his head back against the cushion. The house around him stayed quiet. But somehow, it didn’t feel lonely.
The sun hadn’t quite breached the horizon when Jacob locked the front door behind him. The sky was still that pre-dawn shade of dusty gray-blue, the kind of morning that hummed with stillness before the desert heat took hold. Chris walked beside him down the driveway, quiet but awake, a half-full water bottle in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.
“I didn’t mean to overhear last night,” Jacob said gently, opening the car door for him. “Just… wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Chris settled into the passenger seat and clicked his seatbelt. “I am. I think I am.” Jacob glanced over. “That letter really pulled a lot out of you.”
“Yeah,” Chris admitted. “I didn’t expect it to. I was writing it for Harry, but halfway through it started to feel like I was writing it for me.”
Jacob nodded slowly. “Makes sense.” They didn’t talk much more after that. Just soft music on the drive. Chris tapped his fingers against his knee in rhythm, then fell quiet again until they pulled into the near-empty school lot. A few cars were parked near the main office—staff arrivals, likely. A custodian moving cones. Before he climbed out, Chris hesitated. “Can you keep an eye on my dad today?” Jacob turned to meet his eyes. There wasn’t fear there—but worry, carefully held behind his usual composure.
“I will,” Jacob said. “Promise.”
Chris nodded, gave him a half-smile, and stepped out of the car. Jacob got back to the house a little before 7:00. The sky had lightened, but the air still held the brief illusion of coolness. It wouldn’t last.
He traded his sneakers for old work boots, rolled up his sleeves, and spent the next hour or so pulling weeds from the side yard and sweeping dust from the back patio. The motion helped. Gave his hands something to do. By 9:00, the sun was already climbing with purpose. He peeled off his gloves, grabbed a bottle of water, and stepped inside. The house was quiet. Still.
Too still.
Jacob passed through the hall, heading toward the kitchen—and stopped. Eddie was standing by the counter, phone in hand, eyes distant and unfocused as he scrolled through something. He hadn’t touched the coffee mug in front of him. Jacob recognized the look before he even saw the screen. Bobby’s name sat at the top of the message thread. Eddie didn’t hear him come in.
“Hey,” Jacob said softly.
Eddie jolted—just slightly—and turned to look at him. He quickly flipped his phone face-down on the counter, like he’d been caught doing something wrong.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Jacob added, stepping fully into the room.
Eddie ran a hand over his face. “Nah, you’re good. I just… lost track of time.” Jacob didn’t press right away. Just nodded toward the mug. “You want something hot? I was about to get breakfast going.” Eddie didn’t answer immediately. His eyes dropped back to the table. His voice, when it came, was low.
“I keep thinking… if I’d been there… maybe it would’ve gone differently.”
Jacob leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed loosely. “Different how?”
“I don’t know,” Eddie admitted. “Maybe I could’ve helped. Maybe I would’ve seen something. Gotten to Bobby earlier. Maybe—” He exhaled, jaw tight. “Maybe he wouldn’t have had to make that choice.”
Jacob was quiet a moment. Then he said, carefully, “Or maybe you’d have been in there too.”
Eddie looked up sharply.
“You might’ve been trapped. Might’ve gotten infected,” Jacob continued, voice even but not cold. “Chris might’ve lost his dad. Buck might’ve lost you. Maybe not. Maybe things would have been different. But…”
He let the sentence trail off. Eddie stared at him, eyes narrowed—not angry, but fraying.
“That’s a pretty harsh truth.”
“It is,” Jacob agreed. “But it’s still the truth.”
He crossed the space between them and set a hand on Eddie’s shoulder.
“You’ll never know what would’ve happened. And trying to figure it out is just gonna drive you in circles.”
Eddie didn’t answer, but something in his posture slumped—like the pressure valve had just barely released. Jacob gave the shoulder a light pat, then stepped back toward the stove.
“Let me make something,” he said. “You’re overdue for food that isn’t coffee.”
Eddie moved toward the fridge to grab a few eggs while Jacob prepped the griddle. They worked in silence for a moment—familiar and unspoken teamwork—Eddie cracking the eggs into a bowl, Jacob layering bacon in a pan. Eddie reached for the whisk, just beginning to stir, when his phone buzzed from its place on the counter. He glanced at it absently, expecting a reminder or text.
Instead, his hand stilled.
His face shifted—shoulders tensing, jaw locking. Slowly, he turned the phone around to show Jacob the screen.
Buck. Incoming call.
Jacob paused, meeting Eddie’s eyes. He didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod and gestured for him to take it. “Go. I’ve got this.” Eddie hesitated a second longer before answering. “Hey.” Jacob couldn’t hear the other end, but he watched as Eddie’s expression twitched—eyebrows drawn, one hand sliding into his pocket.
“I’ll head outside,” Eddie said quickly. He took the call out onto the back porch, door clicking quietly behind him.
Jacob stood over the stove, flipping bacon, cracking a few more eggs into a second bowl. The smell of browning butter and peppered hashbrowns filled the space. The sun had fully crested by now, casting streaks of gold across the floor. Fifteen minutes later, the door opened again. Eddie stepped inside, face unreadable but worn. Jacob plated the last few strips of bacon and slid the full plate across the counter. “How’s he doing?” Eddie sat down slowly. “He’s trying to be fine. Which means he’s absolutely not.” Jacob pushed a fork toward him.
“He’s already putting the mask up,” Eddie said, picking at the edge of a hashbrown. “Told me he’s got a handle on things. That he’s gonna keep everyone steady.”
“And when’s he supposed to deal with any of it himself?” Jacob asked, gently.
Eddie shook his head. “He won’t. Not unless someone calls him out.”
“You gonna do that?”
“I’m gonna call him more,” Eddie murmured. “Stay close.”
Jacob watched him for a moment, then returned to his seat with his own plate. They ate in a few quiet bites before Jacob spoke again.
“What’re you thinking? About LA?”
Eddie exhaled through his nose. “Soon as the funeral’s set… I’ll need to get out there.” Jacob nodded. “We talked about that. But we didn’t really talk about what happens after.”
Eddie looked over.
Jacob continued. “How long are you staying? Are Chris and I supposed to follow you out later? Are you coming back at all? What about the house? If you two go early, do you stay with Buck? And where does that leave me?” Eddie held up a hand, stopping him with calm but firmness. “Okay. Slow down.” Jacob pressed his lips together but nodded, breathing through the question that had tumbled out like a dam breaking.
Eddie leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “I don’t have all the answers yet. But I know a few things.” He held up a finger. “One—I'm probably flying out in ten days, funeral or not.” Another. “Two—I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Could be a couple weeks. Could be longer.” Jacob kept listening, jaw clenched but quiet.
“Three—if Chris ends up being too much to juggle, my parents will be more than happy to keep him. They’ve been asking.”
Jacob tilted his head but said nothing.
“And four,” Eddie added, “the house isn’t perfect, but even as-is, we’ll get a decent price. And as far as where that puts you?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You and Ethan get along. I think that living situation you joked about is more real than either of you are admitting. If it came to it, something could be worked out. You wouldn’t be left behind.”
Jacob finally let his shoulders drop a bit, the tension easing just slightly. Eddie softened. “I mean it. We’ll figure this out. Just… not all at once.” Jacob looked down at his plate. “Right. One thing at a time.” Eddie gave him a light nudge with his fork. “Starting with finishing breakfast.”
The days that followed blurred together, soft-edged and heavy with the kind of stillness that didn’t settle on the house—it sank into it. No one said they were grieving out loud. But it was there.
In the way Chris quietly tied his shoes each morning without needing a reminder. In the way Eddie sat outside longer than necessary with his coffee, staring at the same patch of sky like it might give him answers he couldn’t ask for. In the way Jacob moved through the space between them—gentle, present, never invasive.
Chris had gone quiet.
Not shut down. Just… careful. Guarded. He’d offer a smile when asked about his day, nod when reminded to eat something, and sometimes sit at the table long after his plate was clean, pencil in hand, but his homework untouched. And Eddie? Eddie spoke even less.
He did things—mowed the lawn, cleaned the gutters, sorted the mail like something in it might reset the clock—but he moved like a man who was thinking through concrete. Slowed down, heavy with thought, grief edging into his every action. He hadn’t mentioned LA again, not yet. But Jacob could feel it pulsing in the quiet spaces, waiting to be voiced. Jacob didn’t push either of them.
He noticed everything—but he didn’t try to fix it. When Chris came home from the program, Jacob had a snack waiting. When Eddie slipped out to run errands that weren’t urgent, Jacob made sure the coffee was fresh for when he returned.
When the three of them sat in the living room, Jacob didn’t reach for conversation. He let the quiet sit, breathing beside them like a fourth person. Sometimes he read. Sometimes he folded laundry without asking. Sometimes he simply sat, a steady weight between the father and son who hadn’t quite found their rhythm again. The silence wasn’t cold. It wasn’t hostile.
It just was.
And Jacob knew enough not to fill it—only to keep it from turning into loneliness.
It was just after dinner—quiet, like most evenings lately. Eddie had gone out for a few evening Uber runs, and Jacob had taken to rinsing dishes while Chris lingered at the kitchen table, arms folded, chin resting against them. Jacob glanced over his shoulder. “You okay over there?” Chris shrugged but didn’t lift his head.
Jacob turned off the tap, drying his hands before leaning against the counter across from him. “You’ve been thinking about something. You’ve looked like you’re thinking about something for the last couple days.” Chris didn’t deny it. Just shifted slightly, eyes down.
“It’s Buck,” he said finally.
Jacob stayed quiet, giving him room. Chris straightened a little. “I don’t know what to say to him. Or how to say it.” Jacob tilted his head. “You mean about Bobby?” Chris shook his head. “No—I mean… everything.”
He rubbed his wrist. “After I left LA… I kind of stopped talking to him. I mean, not completely. But I didn’t really reach out. I was upset about everything. About Dad, about the move, about being stuck here when I didn’t ask for any of it.” Jacob nodded slowly, encouraging him to keep going.
“I didn’t mean to push Buck away,” Chris added. “But I think I did. And now that Bobby’s gone…” His voice tightened. “It just feels worse. Like I wasted all this time not talking to someone who wanted to talk to me. Who loved me.”
Jacob crossed the space and sat beside him at the table, voice low. “Chris, I don’t think Buck ever stopped caring about you. Or thought for a second that you didn’t care about him.” Chris didn’t answer right away. Jacob continued, “It sounds to me like Buck was giving you space. Letting you come to him when you were ready.”
“But what if I waited too long?” Chris asked, the words a little raw now. “What if I can’t fix it?”
Jacob looked him in the eye. “Then maybe you don’t fix it. Maybe you just… start where you are.” Chris exhaled shakily, looking down again. “I don’t even know what I’d say.” Jacob gave a small smile. “Start with that.”
Chris stared down at his hands, fingers threaded tightly together. “I just… don’t want it to feel forced. Like I’m only reaching out now because something awful happened.” Jacob didn’t answer right away. Instead, he glanced out toward the hallway, like he was weighing whether or not to share something. Eventually, he turned back to Chris, voice quieter now.
“You know I stayed at Buck’s while I was out there, right?”
Chris nodded. “Yeah. You mentioned it. Said my old room was nice.” Jacob gave a soft smile. “That was still your room.”
Chris looked up, blinking.
“Buck never changed it,” Jacob said. “I don’t just mean the furniture. I mean nothing. The posters. The shelves. The stupid lava lamp in the corner. All of it. Exactly the way you left it.”
Chris was quiet, processing that. Jacob continued, slower now, like he wanted the words to land carefully. “Even that old stuffed giraffe. The one your mom won for you at that fair, when you were a toddler?” Chris’s breath hitched faintly. “Gerald.”
“Yeah,” Jacob said with a small nod. “Gerald. Sitting right there on the bed.”
Chris’s shoulders curled inward, his arms wrapping around himself. Jacob’s voice was steady. “He didn’t touch a thing. Just kept it clean. Dusted around stuff. Kept the bed made. I asked him about it, once. He just said, ‘Chris still lives here.’” That got to him. Chris blinked quickly, his throat bobbing in a swallow. “He really said that?”
Jacob nodded. “Yeah. Like it wasn’t even a question. Like he just knew you were coming home. He just didn’t know when.” Chris pressed his sleeve to his eye. “I don’t deserve that.” Jacob shook his head. “Yes, you do.”
A long pause. Then—
Chris looked toward the hallway, where his phone was charging on the side table. “If I message him… will it be weird?”
“No,” Jacob said. “It’ll be right.”
Chris nodded slowly, more to himself than anything. Then, with a quiet breath, he stood up from the table and walked out of the kitchen—off to write a message he didn’t quite know how to start. But he was ready to try. Chris sat on the edge of his bed, fingers hovering above his phone screen.
The room was quiet—his window cracked open to let in the last traces of desert breeze before night settled fully. The hum of distant traffic floated in beneath the rustle of leaves. His phone sat heavy in his hand, the chat thread with Buck open and untouched since a few hours after landing in El Paso. The last message had been simple.
Buck (10 months ago): Let me know when you land, okay?
Chris had replied, hours later.
Chris: We’re here. I’m gonna go to bed.
Nothing more after that. No follow-up. No conversation. Just ten months of silence that now felt like ten years. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then, hesitantly, he began to type.
Chris: Hey Buck.
Then he stopped. Deleted it.
Tried again.
Chris: I’ve been meaning to message you.
He stared at it. Backspaced.
Tried again.
Chris: I know it’s been a while. I’m sorry I haven’t said anything. I was upset about a lot of things, and I didn’t know how to talk about any of it. But I shouldn’t have gone quiet on you.
He reread it. Then, slowly, added more.
Chris: I miss you. And I think about you more than you probably think I do. Jacob told me you kept my room the same. Even Gerald.
Thank you for that.
His thumbs paused. His heart pounded a little harder.
Chris: I don’t really know what I’m trying to say. I just… I want you to know I’m still here. And I still love you like always.
He didn’t overthink it this time.
He hit send.
The message disappeared into the thread, followed by the timestamp and the sudden, unbearable quiet that came afterward. Chris set the phone down beside him and folded his hands in his lap. Now, all he could do was wait.
Chris sat back down on the edge of his bed, phone still in hand, fingers curled a little too tightly around it. He kept staring at the screen.
First minute. Nothing.
Second. Still nothing.
A full five minutes passed, and the silence began to feel sharp. He wondered if he’d said too much. Or not enough. If maybe three months was longer than Buck could forgive.
Then—
Delivered blinked to Read.
Chris sat up straighter, holding his breath. A few seconds later, the typing bubble appeared.
Then:
Buck: Hey, buddy.
You don’t ever have to apologize to me. I get it. I really, really get it.
I’ve missed you too. Every day.
Chris let out a shaky breath—his whole body felt like it exhaled with him.
Another bubble popped up:
Buck: Your room’s still yours. Gerald and all. Always will be.
I love you too, Chris. That’s never gonna change.
Chris smiled, just a little. Then, before he could even start to reply—
His phone buzzed again.
And again.
And again.
Within seconds, he was bombarded by a flood of TikTok links. Each with a brief caption:
Buck: “why frogs don’t blink underwater – this one reminded me of you.”
“this raccoon washes cotton candy and then has an existential crisis.”
“science guy explains what happens when you microwave metal (don’t).”
“bet you already knew this but snails have thousands of teeth.”
Chris laughed, caught off guard, eyes stinging for an entirely different reason now. There were twelve videos in total. All weird. All fascinating. All very Buck. It was exactly what Chris needed—exactly how Buck had always showed he cared.
Chris quickly typed back:
Chris: I missed this. You. All of it.
Also I did NOT know the snail thing. What???
And just like that, the thread between them wasn’t broken anymore. Just picked up where it left off.
It had been a few days since they first talked about it. Since Eddie had listed off the uncertain pieces of a plan still half-formed. But now the countdown was real—six days out, and that flight confirmation wasn’t just a placeholder anymore. The kitchen was quiet again—late afternoon sunlight spilling in through the window, casting gold across the countertop.
Jacob stirred a pot on the stove, absently, something simple simmering for dinner. Eddie leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with that faraway look he’d been wearing more often lately.
“You still feeling good about leaving Chris with me?” Jacob asked, not accusing—just checking.
Eddie nodded slowly. “Yeah. I am.” Jacob glanced at him. “Even now that it’s actually happening?” Eddie’s gaze dropped. “That part’s harder. But it’s still the right call.”
Jacob didn’t press.
“I keep thinking about how fast this all moved,” Eddie added. “One second we were planning to come back in a few months. Now I’m packing a bag and prepping to walk into a funeral for the man who kept all of us together.”
Jacob turned down the burner and set the spoon aside. “Yeah. It’s a lot.” Eddie gave a small, tired laugh. “That’s putting it lightly.” They stood in silence for a moment. Then Jacob said, “Nothing’s changed on my end. I’ll be here. Chris’ll be okay.” Eddie nodded, grateful. “I know.”
“And me?” Jacob added, a little quieter. “I’ll be okay too.”
Eddie looked at him fully then. “I didn’t doubt that.” Jacob gave a half-smile, but didn’t look away. “Even if I do end up crashing at Ethan’s for a while?” Eddie smirked faintly. “You’ll survive. Just don’t let him talk you into an IKEA trip.”
“No promises.”
They shared a quiet moment, the weight between them more familiar now. Not gone—but carried together. Eddie pushed off the doorway. “I’ll call Buck tonight. See if there’s anything he needs me to bring.” Jacob nodded, returning to the pot. “Tell him Chris and I say hi.”
“I will.”
He lingered a second longer, then turned and headed down the hall. And Jacob stayed at the stove, stirring slowly—anchoring the house for just a little longer.
It was almost noon when Eddie pulled the Prius into the small lot behind the church—the same one his parents used to drag him to when he was a kid. It hadn’t changed much. Stucco walls, sun-bleached and warm. The worn wooden double doors still creaked a little when opened. The old bell hadn’t rung in years. Chris glanced out the passenger-side window. “I didn’t know this place was still around.”
Eddie gave a soft grunt as he shut off the engine. “Neither did I, really. Haven’t been back in... a long time.” They sat in silence for a moment, the midday heat rising in soft waves off the hood. Then Eddie unbuckled his seatbelt and said, “C’mon. Just for a little while.”
Inside, the church was cool and dim, the filtered light from stained-glass windows casting colored patterns across the pews. It smelled like polished wood and old books—familiar, in a way Eddie hadn’t realized he’d remember.
Chris stayed close beside him as they walked down the center aisle. They weren’t dressed up. Weren’t here for Mass. But something about the quiet, about the space itself, felt like it asked them to move slower. Breathe quieter. Eddie found an empty pew near the middle and sat. Chris followed, hands in his lap, gaze trailing upward toward the vaulted ceiling. They didn’t speak at first.
Didn’t need to.
After a long stretch of silence, Eddie leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced.
“I don’t do this often,” he said, his voice low in the stillness. “I mean… I don’t really go to church anymore. Haven’t since I was about your age.”
Chris didn’t respond right away. He just nodded, still looking ahead at the altar.
“But Bobby did,” Eddie added. “Every Sunday. Didn’t matter what shift he’d just finished. He always found a way to show up.”
Chris leaned into him a little, shoulder brushing against Eddie’s. “He believed in it.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said softly. “He did.”
Another quiet moment passed.
Then Chris asked, “Are we here for him?” Eddie nodded once. “Yeah. I think we are.” Chris sat back, his voice just above a whisper. “Can we light a candle?” Eddie looked over at him. His eyes were a little glassy, but his voice was steady.
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s do that.”
They stood and made their way to the candle stand near the side chapel, where a few thin tapers sat unused in a tray. Eddie took one, lit it with a match from the brass box, and held it out for Chris. Chris took it carefully and leaned in to light a fresh candle. They watched the flame flicker to life.
Eddie wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders, grounding them both. They didn’t pray aloud. They didn’t speak a name. But they stood there a while longer—letting the silence say what words couldn’t.
The sunlight was brighter when they stepped back outside. The quiet hush of the church fell away, replaced by the distant hum of midday traffic and the warm rustle of breeze through the cottonwoods that lined the sidewalk.
Eddie gave Chris a moment—didn’t rush him into the car. Just leaned against the hood and let his son stand there for a while longer, staring back at the worn front doors. Chris pulled out his phone.
He’d taken a picture earlier inside the church—one of the stained-glass windows that caught the light just right. The colors had spilled down the wall in bands of deep blue, crimson, and amber, and it had made him stop. It felt like something Bobby would’ve liked. He opened his messages and tapped on May’s name.
Chris: Thought you might like this. Took it earlier today.
[Photo attachment: a rich, colorful stained-glass window, sunlight scattering in fractured shapes across the pews.]
The “Delivered” marker sat for only a moment before her reply came in.
May: This is beautiful. You went to church?
Chris: Yeah. With Dad. It felt like the right thing to do.
Bobby always believed. We figured we’d light a candle for him.
May: He would’ve loved that. Especially the glass. He always said churches told stories in color.
Chris smiled faintly at that.
Chris: I miss him.
Still doesn’t feel real.
May: Me too.
Some days I feel okay. Like, “okay enough.” Then it hits again.
A pause.
Chris: I wrote a letter for Harry. But I think it’s for you, too. I’m sending it with my dad when he flies out.
May: Thanks, Chris. That means a lot.
I’ll read it with him. When we’re ready.
Chris: Yeah. No pressure. It’s not perfect. I just didn’t want either of you to feel alone in it.
May: You’re the best, you know that?
Chris: Sometimes.
They lingered in the thread for a moment, neither typing, but still there.
Still connected.
Jacob was halfway through folding the same hoodie for the third time when his phone buzzed once.
Then again.
And again.
He glanced over, expecting maybe a text from Ethan, or something from Eddie about dinner.
Instead—
Group Chat: smol 118 💬
It had been silent for weeks. Since before the lab. Since before any of them had really known what to say. Now, out of the blue, it lit up again.
May: [image: meme of a cat dramatically flopped over a stack of textbooks]
Caption: me attempting to function in the year of our lord 2025
May: Figured we could use this again.
No fanfare. No apologies. Just a quiet offering. Jacob smiled faintly, thumb hovering as the chat began to stir.
Chris: I feel spiritually connected to this cat.
Harry: Did this just come back from the dead??
Denny: Maybe we did too a little bit.
Mara: I missed you weirdos.
Ethan: Can’t lie. Kinda needed this.
Jacob didn’t type right away. He just watched the messages roll in—some light, some awkward, all of them quietly threaded with relief. No one acknowledged how long it had been. No one pointed fingers for the silence. They all just picked it back up. Like the pause had been just that—a pause. He finally added a reply.
Jacob: We’re gonna need a new round of cursed TikToks. I expect at least one video of one of you doing something legally questionable.
May: Don’t worry. I have a queue.
Chris: We’re doomed.
Jacob leaned back against the couch, phone resting on his knee. The grief wasn’t gone. The hard part hadn’t passed. But something had shifted. A door cracked open. A little more air in the room. The group was quiet for a moment after that—no more typing bubbles. Just presence. And for the first time in days, Jacob felt like the house wasn’t the only thing holding steady.
The group chat was still buzzing—memes, catch-up texts, half-made inside jokes blooming back to life. Jacob could hear the faint buzz… buzz… buzz of notifications even as he muted it temporarily to focus on a different thread. One that mattered just as much, but carried a different weight.
Group Chat: Me + Trouble x2 🚫
(Jacob, Ethan, May)
Jacob: Glad that’s alive again.
May: Yeah. We needed it. Even if we didn’t know it.
Ethan: I didn’t realize how much I missed all of it. Until they were suddenly back in my phone.
Jacob leaned back into the couch, legs stretched out, thumb tapping slowly.
Jacob: It’s weird. Everything still hurts, but that didn’t feel… bad.
Ethan: Grief and good things can exist at the same time. Doesn’t cancel it out.
May: Spoken like someone who’s spent too much time around Buck.
Ethan: I have. It’s terrifying how fast I started saying things like “grief is nonlinear.”
Jacob:
God. You’re a walking feelings journal.
Ethan: And yet you like me anyway.
May: Debatable.
Jacob smirked, but the next pause lingered just a little longer—softening the banter back into something closer to real.
May: I’m still angry sometimes. About Bobby.
Not all the time. But it comes out of nowhere.
Jacob: Yeah. Same. For Eddie too, I think. He doesn’t show it. But it’s there.
Ethan: Buck’s hiding behind taking care of everyone else. I’m trying to be the backup system if he crashes.
May: You're both doing too much.
Jacob: So are you.
There was a pause.
May: I know.
Jacob glanced toward the hallway. The house was quiet. Chris’s door was shut. Eddie was probably in the backyard, pretending to do something with the fence so he didn’t have to sit still.
Ethan: Let’s just… keep being this. Here.
When it gets heavy again, we check in.
May: Deal.
Jacob: Pinky swear.
May: That’s binding.
Ethan: You two are so weird.
Jacob: You say that like it’s news.
The group chat continued pinging somewhere in the background, but for Jacob, this thread—just the three of them—felt like an anchor.
Three people holding the line.
Even if they were holding it from different cities.
The porch light had just flicked on when Eddie stepped outside, phone already in hand. He didn’t pace. Just sat on the back steps, elbows resting on his knees, staring out over the yard as the evening cooled.
He tapped Call.
It rang twice before picking up.
“Hey,” Maddie said, a little breathless, like she’d only just sat down herself.
“Hey,” Eddie replied.
There was a pause—not awkward, just tired.
“How’s Chim?” he asked first.
“He’s home,” Maddie said, voice softening. “Still sore. Still sleeping more than he’ll admit. But home. Jee’s glued to his side like a barnacle.”
Eddie smiled faintly. “That sounds about right.” Maddie’s voice dipped a little quieter. “He hasn’t really talked about what happened. Not directly.” Eddie nodded, even though she couldn’t see it.
“I can feel it though,” she continued. “It’s eating at him. Not just that Bobby’s gone… but that he survived. That Bobby chose him.”
Eddie’s stomach twisted.
“He told me,” Maddie added, “about the antiviral. About how Bobby didn’t even hesitate. Just… gave it to him. No argument. Just made the decision.”
Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, voice low. “That’s who Bobby was.”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “But that doesn’t make it easier. Not for Chim.”
“No,” Eddie agreed. “It doesn’t.”
They sat in that truth for a moment, the weight of it settling into the space between them.
“I’m coming out there,” Eddie said, shifting gears. “In a few days.”
“For the funeral?”
“Yeah. Flying in Monday.”
Maddie let out a quiet breath. “Good. You should be here.”
“I thought about bringing Chris,” Eddie admitted. “But… I think it’d be too much. He wrote something, though. A letter. For Harry and May.”
Maddie’s voice warmed. “They’ll appreciate that more than he knows.”
Another beat passed.
“I’m worried about Buck,” she said, like she’d been holding it in until the quiet felt safe enough.
“Me too,” Eddie admitted.
“He’s doing that thing again. Trying to carry everyone else. I can hear it in how he talks. Like he’s holding his breath between every word.”
“He told me Bobby said everyone would need him,” Eddie murmured. “That’s all he’s focused on. Not himself.”
“He’s going to crash,” Maddie said. “And it’s going to be hard.”
“I’ll be there before he does.”
Maddie didn’t respond right away. But her silence was its own kind of thank-you. They stayed on the line for a while longer—exchanging a few updates, a few gentle nothings—before quietly hanging up. No need for big endings. They both knew what they were walking into. And that, at least, they wouldn’t be walking into it alone.
The mood had changed over the last few days. The grief hadn’t gone away—but it had settled. Worn itself into the fabric of their days, into the rhythm of quiet mornings and softer conversations. Meals were no longer silent. Laughter, though rare, had returned in flickers. And though no one said it aloud, there was a mutual understanding that things were starting to move forward.
Now, the airport smelled faintly of coffee and jet fuel—Eddie had always found it oddly comforting. People milled around with backpacks and rolling suitcases, voices low but purposeful. The kind of soft chaos that made him feel like part of something larger than himself. He stood just outside the security line, Chris and Jacob beside him. His flight to LAX left in just under an hour.
“You got everything?” Jacob asked again, for what was probably the fourth time.
Eddie patted his chest and jacket pockets in rhythm. “Wallet, charger, ID, letter.” He nodded toward his carry-on. “All packed.” Jacob gave a quiet nod, but there was still that twitch of concern in his brow. Not about logistics—about what Eddie was walking into. Chris was quieter. Not somber, just thoughtful.
“I know I’m not going,” Chris said softly, “but… you’ll tell everyone I say hi, right?”
Eddie crouched slightly so they were eye-level. “Of course I will. And I’m bringing the letter.” Chris nodded, swallowing hard. “Make sure they read it.”
“I will.”
The overhead intercom crackled above them: “Flight 228 to Los Angeles will begin boarding in approximately thirty minutes. All passengers should make their way to Gate 9A.” Eddie exhaled, standing back up.
“That’s my cue.”
Chris stepped forward first, wrapping both arms around Eddie and holding on tight. “I love you.” Eddie returned it just as firmly, his voice soft. “I love you too, mijo. I’ll call you when I land.” Chris stepped back, a little red around the eyes but holding strong.
Jacob moved in next, offering a firm hug and a quick clap on Eddie’s shoulder. “Go do what you need to do.”
“Thanks for keeping things grounded here,” Eddie said, meaning it.
Jacob smiled. “We’ve got it covered.” The overhead speakers buzzed again. Group One was being called. Eddie gave them both one last look before turning toward the TSA line. He made it through in less than fifteen minutes, then found a quiet seat near the gate, his carry-on tucked at his feet. The world moved around him, but he let himself sit still. He pulled out his phone. Opened the thread already near the top.
Eddie: Just got through security.
About to board.
I’ll be home soon.
The reply came quickly—short, but steady.
Buck: I’ll be waiting.