Chapter Text
He hadn’t expected cleaning out his kitchen to feel like a funeral.
The refrigerator shelves gleamed, empty except for a few condiments he couldn’t justify tossing. The pantry looked even more barren—rows of space where flour, sugar, and chocolate chips used to live. He’d boxed everything up earlier that afternoon, loading the backseat of his Jeep with Tupperware full of cookies, muffins, and the last of the cinnamon rolls he’d made on autopilot at three in the morning. The volunteers at the shelter had been grateful. He’d smiled, said it was no trouble, and meant it.
But now, standing in the quiet of his own home, he felt the echo of something hollow.
His gaze drifted to the stand mixer on the counter—sleek, expensive, a gift from Maddie and Chimney he’d once used almost daily. He rested a hand on the cool metal. He should donate it. Someone else could make better use of it. Someone who wasn’t trying to bake his way through grief.
He exhaled, long and slow. He was finally—finally—coming to terms with the truth he’d been avoiding for nearly a year. Bobby was gone. And Tommy… well. That loss had been quieter but no less sharp. A different kind of grief. One he’d tried to knead out of himself with dough and sugar and late-night recipes.
Buck closed the pantry door gently, like he was afraid of waking something. He shut his eyes and let his shoulders drop.
A knock sounded at the front door.
He didn’t bother opening his eyes. “Come in!” he called, already picturing Ravi or May or Harry tumbling inside with snacks and commentary ready for the latest episode of Drag Race.
The door opened.
Silence followed.
Then footsteps. Not Ravi’s. Nor May’s. Nor Harry’s.
“Chim?” he called out, expecting his brother‑in‑law’s familiar voice, maybe a joke about Buck’s compulsive cleaning habits.
No answer.
He went still, though his heart picked up speed. Someone was in his house. Not Ravi. Not May or her brother. Not Chimney. Who else would drop by unannounced?
His mind flipped through possibilities.
Maddie was at work.
Eddie and Chris were in El Paso for his youngest sister’s wedding.
Hen and Karen were hosting a sleepover.
That left Athena.
The footsteps stopped at the threshold of the kitchen. Buck could feel the presence—someone standing there, watching him.
He opened his eyes.
And his heart stopped.
A ghost stood in the doorway.
For a moment, Buck wondered if he’d conjured him. Tommy looked… different. Not physically—still tall, still broad-shouldered, still carrying himself with that quiet steadiness—but his face was drawn, his eyes shadowed. Haunted. Like he hadn’t slept in days.
Gone was the man with eyes as blue as the Pacific and a smile bright enough to warm a room.
“Tommy?” Buck’s voice cracked on the name. He pushed himself off the pantry door, legs suddenly unsteady. “Is that really you? How did you—”
He didn’t get to finish.
Tommy’s face crumpled. Not subtly. Not the tight swallow or the quick blink Buck had seen him use to hold himself together at Bobby’s funeral. This was raw. Uncontrolled. A sound tore out of him—half-breath, half-sob—and Buck froze.
He had never seen Tommy cry. Not once.
For a heartbeat, Buck didn’t move. They weren’t together anymore. They weren’t even anything he had a name for. Just two people with a history and a lot of unanswered texts.
And yet the sight of Tommy breaking in front of him hit Buck in a place he thought he’d boarded up for good.
Buck crossed the room before he could talk himself out of it. He wrapped his arms around Tommy, feeling the older man fold into him like he’d been holding himself upright by sheer force of will.
Tommy’s forehead pressed into Buck’s shoulder. His hands fisted in the back of Buck’s shirt. His whole body shook.
Buck held him tighter.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, though he had no idea if it was. He lifted one hand and rubbed slow, steady circles between Tommy’s shoulder blades—muscle memory from nights when comfort had been simple, when touch hadn’t been complicated.
His other hand hovered for a moment, suspended in the air between them. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.
But Tommy was trembling, and Buck’s heart was breaking, and the familiarity of it all pulled him under.
He slid his fingers into Tommy’s curls.
Soft. Warm. Exactly as he remembered.
Tommy shuddered, a quiet, wrecked sound escaping him.
Buck closed his eyes.
He didn’t know what this meant. He didn’t know why Tommy was here or what storm had driven him to Buck’s door. But for this moment—for this breath—he held him.
Because whatever they were now, whatever they weren’t anymore…
Tommy wasn’t heavy.
And Buck couldn’t let him fall.
#
He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, clinging to each other as if they alone were keeping the very fabric of the universe from falling apart into a million tiny pieces. Tommy’s distress showed no sign of abating, but Buck had made up his mind. He would stand there, holding this man until the end of time and whatever came next.
He could feel Tommy’s tears seeping through the front of his shirt. He kept carding his fingers through Tommy’s hair, letting the motion stay slow and steady. Under the recessed lighting, he caught the tell‑tale signs of the pilot’s forty‑one years. The once‑luscious dark curls were flecked with gray now. Buck found he didn’t mind the change. The gray suited Tommy. Made him look distinguished. Made him look…
Sexy.
No.
The word roared through his mind so loudly he startled. Thankfully, Tommy didn’t seem to notice or react to the sudden jolt. Buck recovered quickly, pressing himself closer, burrowing into the familiar shape of Tommy’s body as if that could quiet the thought.
But the voice came anyway.
He is not your boyfriend anymore.
The words hit him like a splash of cold water—shocking, bracing, chilling him straight to the bone. Buck stilled. Slowly, he untangled his arms from around his mountain of an ex. Tommy reluctantly let go, stepping back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red, wet, and full of too many things at once. Confusion. Hurt. Embarrassment. The vice around Buck’s heart tightened.
“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispered, head ducking immediately, like he was ashamed of even existing in the room.
“D‑D‑don’t be,” Buck blurted. As a compromise—because he couldn’t bear the distance—he reached for Tommy’s hand. Held it. Squeezed it.
“I should go.” Tommy’s gaze darted around the kitchen, landing on everything except Buck. “I shouldn’t have dropped by like this. I should—”
Fuck it.
Buck tugged him forward, closing the space between them and reestablishing their connection. He wrapped his arms around Tommy again, hoping the gesture said what his mouth couldn’t quite manage.
Stay.
Please.
Tommy exhaled a long, shuddering sigh and pressed his forehead to Buck’s. They breathed in tandem, warm and sweet against each other’s skin. Buck brushed his nose against Tommy’s, fingers curling into the firm muscle of his biceps like he was anchoring himself.
“Please stay,” he whispered.
He could feel Tommy nod against his forehead.
“I will,” Tommy murmured.
#
Minutes passed, and neither of them dared to speak. The silence that had once felt unbearable now settled around them like oxygen. Buck listened closely; beneath Tommy’s uneven breaths, he could hear the faint lub‑dub of his heart. He closed his eyes and let himself imagine a reality where they stayed like this forever—two lovers locked in an embrace, suspended in time, like something carved onto a Grecian urn.
He remembered the last time they’d been this close. He’d been talking Ravi’s ear off in some bar they’d stumbled into after shift when, out of nowhere, Tommy had shown up—sat down at his table like it was the most natural thing in the world—and asked how he was doing, as if he hadn’t unceremoniously broken up with him only months before.
He remembered the flood of emotions that had hit him as he sat across from Tommy. Not anger. Not resentment. Those had burned themselves out long before. Buck had spent the past several months pouring every emotion he had into a 13×9 cake pan and baking it at 400.
How much was a broken heart worth?
Apparently ten layer cakes, seven pies, and more brownies and cookies than he could count.
With every negative and volatile emotion burned away, the only thing he had left for Tommy was a love that had never really gone anywhere.
Which is how they ended up back at his place—formerly Eddie’s—navigating a minefield of cardboard boxes without breaking their necks. Somehow, they found their way to the mattress in his otherwise empty bedroom. And Buck was relieved, almost embarrassingly so, to discover that in all his attempts to forget the pain Tommy had caused, his body remembered everything.
In the dark, Buck mapped the familiar topography of Tommy’s body and felt a quiet, aching relief settle in his chest. He felt the same. Smelled the same.
Tasted the same.
They rolled and tumbled across the king‑sized mattress, careful not to slip off the edge. The beauty of rekindling something with an ex was the absence of expectation. If they never spoke again after this night, it would be fine, he told himself. Worst case, his mixer was somewhere in a box in the living room, ready for another round of grief baking.
He remembered threading his fingers through Tommy’s hair—how natural it had always felt. Out of everything he’d missed, this surprised him the most. Abby had hated it and slapped his hand away. Taylor had assumed he was trying to assert dominance the moment he touched her hair.
But Tommy… Tommy had loved it. Encouraged it. Leaned into it.
Which was why, every time Buck gently tugged one of his curls, Tommy’s breath hitched and his whole body responded, instinctive and unguarded, like muscle memory.
Their rekindling had reached its peak in a way Buck hadn’t expected. In a night full of familiar rhythms and remembered touches, this part was new. When they’d been together before, he had always taken the lead—not as a power play, just a preference, one Tommy had seemed perfectly content with.
But with Tommy guiding the moment this time, Buck found himself startlingly aware of everything. The way Tommy’s muscles flexed with each movement. The subtle shifts of his body. The quiet, concentrated sounds he made when emotion overtook him. All details Buck had somehow missed before, now illuminated in the dark like constellations he’d never bothered to map.
He remembered they hadn’t lasted long.
He remembered the way they’d ended up lying side by side afterward, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, neither of them speaking, both of them breathing like they were afraid to break whatever fragile peace had settled over them.
He remembered curling into Tommy’s side, resting his head on his chest.
Sated.
Exhausted.
Content.
#
Tommy broke away this time, and Buck braced himself for the inevitable retreat. Instead, Tommy drifted toward the refrigerator. He took in the clutter of magnets, postcards, and takeout menus clinging to the stainless‑steel door, then lifted a hand to the black‑and‑white photo of Buck asleep in a chair beside Maddie’s hospital bed—Robby swaddled and tucked against his chest, the moment frozen in time.
He glanced across the kitchen island. “Your nephew?”
They’d talked briefly at Bobby’s wake. Tommy had seen Maddie’s very pronounced baby bump and peppered Buck with questions about the future niece or nephew—names, nursery colors, due dates. Buck had answered each one with a mix of confusion and reluctant amusement.
Buck nodded now, crossing his arms as he slowly approached. “That’s Robby. They, um—” He sniffed, brushing something from his eye. “They named him after Bobby. Robert Nash Han.”
Tommy looked back at the picture, touching it lightly, as if confirming it wasn’t a trick of the light. “I like that.”
“He’ll be a year old in May,” Buck said. “Hard to believe. Feels like he just got here.”
Tommy turned toward him then, studying Buck with an intensity that made the air feel heavier. When he finished whatever silent inventory he was taking, his gaze dropped to the black‑and‑white tile—a gesture Buck had long associated with Tommy’s inability to put his feelings into words. When they were together, it used to drive him up the wall. How many times had he wanted to shout, Just say it! But he never had.
Today, in this moment, it didn’t bother him. Whatever was weighing on Tommy was too big, too raw, too tangled to name. And Buck knew he’d get there eventually.
Until then, he was content to wait.
When Tommy finally lifted his head and met Buck’s eyes, he said, “Mark Anthony will be eleven in May.”
Buck frowned. “Who is Mark Anthony?”
“My nephew,” Tommy replied, tone matter‑of‑fact. “My brother’s kid.”
Buck’s eyes widened; his mouth fell open. “Y‑Y‑you have a brother?”
“Yes,” Tommy said, eyes crinkling slightly. “And a nephew.”
“Y‑Y‑you never said you—” Buck shut his eyes for a long, steadying breath before opening them again. Tommy’s expression hadn’t changed. “You never said you had a brother.”
Tommy tilted his head. “I didn’t?”
Buck shook his head, emphatic and incredulous. “No, you didn’t. Which is wild considering all the times we talked about your family. Your great‑aunt in Modesto with fifteen cats. Your Nonna Teresa—your mom’s mom. Your uncle who hasn’t left the house since Covid.” His arms dropped to his sides. “Nothing about a brother. Or a nephew.”
He didn’t know why, but the omission burned—hot and sharp and not in a way he liked.
“Don’t you think it’s little weird that we were together for six months and you never mentioned having a brother? I mean, I told you about Maddie. I introduced you to her three weeks in. I even told you about Daniel, and I never even got to meet him.”
“Evan—”
“Why are you telling me this now?” Buck asked, stepping back, putting the kitchen island between them.
“Evan, I can explain.”
“Why are you here?”
Tommy flinched at the raised voice, the question hanging between them like something toxic.
He stared at Buck, gaze intense and unyielding. He crossed his arms, mirroring Buck’s stance. Buck held his ground, the air between them charged. His eyes flicked to Tommy’s throat just in time to see the hard swallow.
“My dad died.”