Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Evan Buckley never really set out to get hurt, but it kept happening anyway. The same way you scrape your hands if your bike takes a corner too sharp, or when you miss a stair because your head is three steps ahead of your feet. At first he told himself it was normal stuff, and other people did too, until the accidents started stacking up. That was when his mom actually turned her head as he came into the kitchen, holding his elbow like it might give out on him.

Usually, she would have waved him off, told him not to drip blood on the carpet, but that day she said his name and went straight for the freezer. Her fingers smelled faintly of lemon dish soap, the brand she always bought in bulk, and it shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

When she pressed the ice pack against his arm he sat as still as he could, not because of the pain but because for once it felt like someone was treating him with care.

So, two weeks later when he came home with his chin scraped and his palms raw from tripping down the school stairs, it didn’t feel like part of a plan, but it didn’t feel completely random either. His dad glanced up from the couch, told him to be more careful next time, tossed a bandage onto the counter and walked out. Evan picked it up and stuck it on wrong, just so he’d have an excuse to ask for help later.

That was how it began. Not a big decision, just small injuries, none bad enough to send him to the nurse’s office or raise alarms, just enough to have his parents’ attention on him.

Talking wasn’t much of a thing in their house. Most of the time it was about chores or bills, all spoken in clipped phrases. Maddie had always been the one who softened it. Even when she was buried in schoolwork or annoyed at their mom, she’d still sneak him snacks, brush his hair out of his eyes, tell him quietly that she had his back.

Then she left when he was eight, and the silence that followed was heavier than he knew silence could be. He could still hear the scrape of her suitcase against the tiles, feel the rush of her arms around him before she pulled away.

After that, she was gone. No calls, no letters. He tried once, on her birthday, pulling up a blank message window and sitting in front of it until the screen went dark. He typed a line, erased it, tried again, then closed the whole thing down.

Now he was fourteen, sitting on the edge of his bed with a damp paper towel pressed to his shin. The scrape wasn’t deep, but it stung enough that someone might notice if they bothered to look. His room smelled faintly of old laundry and pencil shavings, the fan in the corner clicking every few seconds.

He thought about food, about walking past his dad to the kitchen, and the thought made his stomach twist in a way that wasn’t about hunger. He stayed where he was, leaning back until his shoulders sank into the mattress and the ceiling filled his view. The crack near the light fixture looked bigger than it had last week, though maybe his eyes were just tired.

He let his arm fall across his chest and thought about what it would feel like if someone just noticed without the bandages and the limping and the constant quiet effort of being hurt just enough. The thought made his chest go tight. Maybe this is just how it is, he told himself. Some people get lucky. Some people get Maddies who stay. He was simply not one of the lucky ones.

Of course someone was eventually going to notice. Evan had known that. Kind of. It didn’t stop his stomach from flipping when he got the call slip during math and the teacher gave him that look, like he was relieved Evan would be someone else’s problem for fifteen minutes.

The nurse’s office smelled like hand sanitizer and plastic from fresh band-aids. That fake lavender spray clung to everything, even the corners the mop didn’t quite reach. The lights buzzed overhead, and Evan kept his eyes on the floor tiles because they felt less judgmental than people.

Nurse Talbot typed slowly, two fingers hitting the keys one at a time like she wasn’t in any hurry to get to the hard part. “You’ve been in here a lot lately,” she said eventually, still watching the screen. “Four times in two weeks.”

Evan shrugged, aiming for casual. “Guess I’m a magnet for door frames.”

She hummed like she didn’t buy it but wasn’t ready to push. “You said it was soccer this time.”

His eyes locked on a crack in the tile that curled like a stem. “Yeah.”

“I called your coach.”

His head snapped up. Too fast. His leg pulled and he winced. “Why?”

She raised her brows a little, finally meeting his eyes. “Because that’s my job. And because it’s strange to keep getting hurt at practices you haven’t been to.”

Heat rushed to his ears.

“He said to tell you hi,” she added, softer this time.

Evan folded his arms tight across his chest and dropped his gaze again. “I didn’t mean to lie,” he muttered. “I just didn’t want to explain everything.”

Talbot turned her chair, folding her hands in her lap like she had all the time in the world. “You don’t have to explain everything,” she said. “But I think you want someone to know anyway.”

His throat was dry. He blinked too fast, trying to even it out.

“I’m not... being hurt. Like that.” The words rushed out before he could stop them. “I’m not being abused.”

She nodded once, patient as always.

“I just—” he cut himself off, rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve even though they weren’t itchy. “No one notices me unless I’m bleeding.” He gave a short, humorless huff. “I know, I’m being stupid.”

He braced for her to say he was dramatic, or attention-seeking, or whatever else people said when you wanted too much. She didn’t.

“That’s not stupid,” she said.

He hadn’t planned to say more, but it kept coming out anyway, messy and tangled. How his mom only asked questions if he limped. How his dad barely looked up unless the trash was still sitting by the door. How Maddie left, and how he understood she had to, but it still felt like she never once looked back.

He didn’t cry, but the words tumbled out fast enough that his voice cracked, and his eyes kept blinking away tears that threatened to spill. When he finally ran out of steam, Talbot stood and crossed the room. She sat down beside him, close enough that he felt it, but not so close that it crowded him.

“You’re not weak, Evan,” she said after a moment. “You’re just trying to figure out how to be seen. And that’s okay.”

He tugged at the edge of his sleeve until the seam loosened. “Feels pathetic.”

“It’s not.” Her voice stayed steady. “Kids aren’t supposed to raise themselves.”

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if he agreed with her or if it stung too much to try.

“I see how you are with people,” she went on. “You notice things. When someone drops their books or forgets their lunch card, you’re the one who pays attention. You make space for people even when they don’t know how to ask.”

He shifted uncomfortably. It was easier when adults told him what he was doing wrong. He was never good at taking compliments. After a long pause he asked, quieter, “What if that’s not enough? What if I end up being the kind of person nobody sticks with?”

“I think the people who matter will show up,” she said. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But you’ll find them. You’ll build something better than what you were given.”

It lingered with him. It didn’t solve anything, but it was something steady he could lean on for a time.

“You’ll let me know when you’re ready for more help,” she added. “Doesn’t have to be today.”

He nodded. Not exactly yes, not exactly no.

The office settled into quiet again, the vents humming overhead and the soft click of her pen against the desk breaking it every so often. He didn’t feel like rushing out.

When he finally got up, he slung his backpack over one shoulder, adjusting the strap so it wouldn’t dig. The hallway outside was bright and loud, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking. Evan moved through it on autopilot, head low, earbuds in even though he hadn’t hit play.

The bus ride home dragged. Sunlight cut through the scratched windows, hot enough to make his skin itch. The vinyl seat clung to the back of his legs. Somewhere in the back a freshman blasted music off their phone, all warped bass and half-yelled lyrics that made the windows buzz. Evan leaned his forehead against the glass and watched yards and mailboxes smear into each other. His phone sat in his hand, screen lighting up every few minutes like maybe something would change.

Nothing did.

He wasn’t surprised his parents hadn’t come for him. That would have meant remembering. Still, some part of him kept checking, just in case.

When the bus pulled up to the corner, the house looked picture ready. The lawn was cut sharp; edges trimmed perfectly along the driveway. Two potted plants framed the porch, always bright and alive like someone swapped them out before they had the chance to wilt. The siding had that fresh, neutral paint job with some catalog name like “Harvest Cloud” or “Soft Birch.” Even the porch light flicked on, automatic, though the sun hadn’t set yet.

Everything about it looked neat. Managed. Built to be looked at.

Inside, the air smelled like lemon polish and fabric softener, like every surface had been wiped twice and a candle lit after. The couch pillows were plumped. No stray shoes by the door. No clutter or mess at sight.

His dad sat in the armchair, one leg crossed over the other, beer balanced on a coaster, staring at the news without any sign it mattered. His mom was at the stove, stirring with one hand while scrolling with the other, her voice light and sweet into a phone call that barely held her attention.

Neither of them looked up when he came in.

Evan lingered a second too long, waiting for something he couldn’t name. “Hi,” he finally said.

Nothing. His dad didn’t move. His mom adjusted the phone against her shoulder like he was part of the background.

He drew in a breath that caught halfway. “Do you guys even love me?”

The words came out strange, like he’d only meant to think them, but they slipped free anyway. His voice cracked at the end, and that was the part he hated most.

His dad didn’t turn around. Just gave this halfhearted shake of his head, like Evan had asked about the weather instead of anything real. His mom snorted without missing a beat on her call. “Evan, really? What kind of question is that?”

That was all. Nothing more.

He stayed there longer than made sense, the silence oppressing while the TV blared, the kitchen light buzzed, and the smell of chicken grew sharper by the second. Something in his chest tightened and didn’t let go. He turned, walked upstairs, and shut his door behind him.

He dropped onto the bed without taking off his backpack, resting his arms on his knees. The room was dim, the fan spinning in its corner, clicking with every pass of the blades. The nurse had been right. This wasn’t on him. A kid wasn’t supposed to raise himself while his parents looked the other way.

The next morning, he ended up in the guidance office without really planning it. His feet carried him there after first period, even as his palms sweated and he kept swallowing like his body wanted to spit the whole idea out. Still, he pushed through the glass door.

“Uh. Hi,” he said. “I think I need to talk to someone.”

The secretary looked up and didn’t seem surprised, just handed him a slip and told him to wait.

By third period, he was on a soft couch across from Mr. Reed. The man looked less like a counselor and more like someone’s older brother—sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses sliding down his nose every time he leaned forward.

The office smelled faintly of mint gum and worn carpet. Little baskets of stress toys sat on the table, half-tangled from too many hands.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” Mr. Reed said. “Just what you feel like sharing.”

Evan spun one of the toys between his fingers, thought about backing out, but the words were already pressing against his throat. Holding them in felt worse than letting them go. So he told him. About the house. About how being invisible only ended when something went wrong. About how no one asked if he was okay, so sometimes he made sure they had to.

Mr. Reed didn’t look shocked, and that helped.

“You’ve been carrying a lot by yourself,” he said after a moment. “I’m glad you came in.”

Evan nodded, almost without meaning to, his mouth too dry to add anything.

“I’d like us to meet weekly,” Reed went on. “Just to start, but there’s no pressure if you dod not feel like it. Still, you don’t have to do any of this alone.”

Evan sat there a little longer, sleeves bunched tight in his fists, eyes fixed on the bookshelf. It wasn’t easy, the thought of accepting help. He’d been on his own for so long. But if he wanted to get better, he had to try.

By senior year, he could hardly remember what it felt like to sit on his bed with a scraped shin, waiting for someone downstairs to finally look up. That version of him still lived somewhere—tucked into old yearbooks, school IDs, and a hoodie that had always been too big—but he didn’t show up much anymore.

The change hadn’t been sudden. It came in uneven stretches, the way you grow taller before your legs figure out what to do with it. Some days still hurt, just not in the same way. He wasn’t clawing for attention anymore, because he knew he wasn’t invisible.

Nurse Talbot—Mary, though he never quite got used to calling her that—stayed through it all. She came to his games, even in the snow, always loudest in the stands, always with her thermos.

Mr. Reed stayed too, checking in between classes like Evan was a long project he wasn’t ready to put down. They both knew more than they ever said, and maybe that was what made it easier to keep talking.

Coach Daniels had been a surprise. For the first few months of freshman year, he barely said anything at all, just barked out corrections during drills and moved on without making eye contact. Then one afternoon after practice, he pulled Evan aside and told him he needed to stop playing like he was waiting for someone to tell him to leave.

“You show up and stick it out, that’s what counts,” Coach said. Then he tossed Evan a towel, already damp with sweat, and walked off before Evan could figure out whether that was supposed to be encouragement or criticism.

Basketball hadn’t even been the plan. Soccer was. Not because he loved it, but because he’d been playing it since he was a kid. It was safe and familiar, but by the time tryouts rolled around that fall, it didn’t fit anymore. The field felt too open, the running endless, and nothing about it felt like his sport, even though it used to.

Basketball only happened because Jonah dared him. Jonah, who never shut up, who had an opinion on everything and no filter at all, shoved a milk carton across the cafeteria table one day and said, “Tryouts are Tuesday and you’re joining.”

So Evan went. Not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t have a reason not to. Being tall helped, but the rest of it was rough. The first week he could barely breathe through the drills, and most of his layups bounced straight off the rim. Jonah heckled him every chance he got, which was bold considering Jonah missed half his own shots.

But slowly, Evan got better. His feet started to know where to land. His hands stopped fumbling the passes. Reading the court started to feel like learning a new language, and that was something he wanted to keep speaking.

The best part was that nobody asked him to explain himself. He didn’t have to talk much. Just show up, push hard, take the shot. Everything else fell into place. Jonah became a fixture, on the court and off, hanging out at his house, texting dumb memes late at night.

By junior year, Evan was co-captain. By senior year, they handed him the C. Twice they made it to state and twice they won. There was a picture in the locker room of him laughing, trophy in hand, his teammates a blur of smiles behind him. He never really got used to looking at it.

His parents never came to see a single game. Not playoffs, not finals, nothing. The house stayed spotless, the fridge filled with food that hardly got eaten. When the scholarship letter from Penn State arrived, his mom glanced up just long enough to say, “That’s nice,” before going back to her tablet.

But by then, he didn’t need the validation from them. That was the real change. Not the wins, not the captain’s title, not even the neat little college acceptance with a dorm waiting for him. It was that he could breathe without waiting for someone’s permission.

He had people now. Jonah, who knew when to crack a joke and when to shut up and hand over a Gatorade. Miss Talbot, still hounding him about getting enough sleep like she’d made it her personal mission. Mr. Reed, who never forgot his favorite gum and always kept an extra pack in his drawer. Coach, who complained about “attitude problems” but always came through when it mattered.

They didn’t fix everything, but they gave him ground to stand on.

One afternoon in April, the gym was nearly empty. Practice had ended, most of the team had cleared up, and the late sun cut through the upper windows in strips of gold. Evan stood at half-court, slowly dribbling the ball.

From the bleachers, Jonah called, “You gonna get all misty now that it’s almost over?”

Evan didn’t turn. “Maybe. You gonna cry first?”

“Probably. I’m the emotional core of this friendship.”

Evan sent the ball flying, watching it arc cleanly through the net. Jonah dropped onto the bench with the gracelessness of a tired dog. “I’m gonna miss this,” he said to the ceiling.

Evan wandered over and sat down beside him, arms hanging over his knees. “Me too.”

“You’re gonna forget us when you’re famous.”

Evan snorted. “I’m majoring in business. Best case, I’m some guy working behind the scenes.”

“Perfect. I’ll be your loud, unqualified assistant.”

“You already are.”

Jonah grinned and nudged him with his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get food before I start crying.”

Evan stood, stretching until his back cracked. “Your treat, right?”

“I’ll Venmo you fake money and call it even.”

They wandered out of the gym without saying goodbye, and somehow that felt like the right way to leave it. No big gesture, no dramatic last look—just moving forward, the door still open behind them.

Penn State, though, was a whole different thing. People walked like they knew exactly where they were headed, earbuds in, coffee balanced in one hand, confidence practically built into their stride. Evan spent most days trailing a step behind, second-guessing whether his map was upside down, trying not to notice how easily everyone else seemed to slide into this new rhythm.

His dorm was… fine. As fine as a room could be when the walls were painted a bland beige and the mattress looked like it had been through at least a decade of use. His roommate, Luke, was easygoing enough. He stashed his snacks on the top shelf and once offered Evan a bag of pretzels like it was some kind of peace offering.

It worked.

They got along, helped by the fact that they were both on the basketball team.

Classes weren’t bad either. Business made sense if he kept up with the reading and didn’t let himself fall too far behind. Still, campus never seemed to quiet down. Outside his dorm, it always felt like the world was having a party he hadn’t been invited to. People ran late, shouted across lawns, laughed too loud. One afternoon, a guy skateboarded past him holding an entire tray of sushi and didn’t spill a single roll. Evan couldn’t decide if that was impressive or exhausting.

He missed the gym, not the noise or the drills that carried over into college practices, but the team that had become his. The new guys were fine, but they weren’t his yet. That kind of bond took years.

He missed Nurse Talbot, who always seemed to have a granola bar tucked away like she was smuggling it just for him. He missed Mr. Reed’s office, especially that chair by the desk that leaned just enough to make you feel like you were sinking.

But more than anything, he missed Mrs. Jones.

Technically she taught Home Ec, but everyone knew she was more than a teacher. She wore floral aprons like they were a second uniform and called everyone “sweetheart” in a way that never sounded fake, even when you didn’t deserve it.

She had rules, too, ones she enforced like commandments: don’t skip meals, don’t mistreat your body, and don’t come into her kitchen ready to sulk or fight or act like you were too good for peach cobbler.

Evan couldn’t pin down exactly when she started noticing him. Maybe it was the way he lingered after class, stretching out cleanup just so he didn’t have to leave. Maybe it was the way he ate like someone might yank the plate away halfway through. She didn’t press. She just started offering little things—an extra seat, a snack, an invitation to stay a bit longer.

“You ever think about joining the Home Ec club?” she asked one afternoon while he helped her organize the pantry. “I could use someone tall who doesn’t mind hauling twenty-pound bags of flour.”

He joined the following week.

That was when things changed. Learning how to chop vegetables properly, how to eyeball measurements because, as she put it, your hands eventually just knew. He wasn’t natural, and sometimes he still stumbled, but she never once made him feel behind.

He ended up baking more than cooking. It started with brownies. Then muffins. Then cinnamon rolls were so good the hallway outside smelled like a bakery for hours. Jonah tried one and declared them “offensively good.” Evan pretended not to grin for a full minute.

People started leaving him notes. Quick scribbles taped to his locker: banana bread? those chocolate things? muffins pls — you know the kind. He never asked for money. That wasn’t the point. Baking was his way of telling people, I thought of you today, when he couldn’t bring himself to actually say it out loud.

Mrs. Jones encouraged every bit of it. She handed him recipes written in looping blue ink on cards that always had a smudge somewhere, proof she’d tested them herself. They stayed in touch after graduation, something he hadn’t expected. Emails turned into texts. She sent him photos of whatever she was cooking that week, usually accompanied by a warning not to trust her oven.

By his second week at Penn State, Evan had started baking again.

The dorm kitchen was a joke—two stovetops that barely worked, one oven that always ran too hot, and a microwave still crusted with dried tomato soup no one had ever bothered to clean. But it stayed open late, and that was what mattered.

Evan bought cheap ingredients in small batches, worked around the dirty dishes left behind, and made do with whatever space was free. It wasn’t much, but it was his to manage.

The first batch of muffins went to Luke, who downed four in one sitting and then tried to Venmo him ten bucks. Evan waved him off and said he only took bribes in the form of groceries. Luke laughed and showed up the next day with a bag of sugar.

After that, word spread. People from the hall drifted in whenever the smell reached the stairwell. One night, someone knocked with an empty Tupperware and no explanation. Another offered a pack of Ramen in exchange for cookies. Evan never promised anything, but he rarely said no.

It wasn’t like high school. There were no locker notes, no old teammates waiting by the gym. But there was something good in the way people’s faces softened after that first bite. The way thank you came out unguarded, whole. Like for just a moment, the noise of everything else stopped.

Mrs. Jones would’ve loved it.

When he told her about the muffins, she wrote back in all caps: THE LEGEND CONTINUES. YOUR OVEN IS YOURS ALONE TO COMMAND.

She kept sending him recipes, told him to improvise if ingredients ran short. Once, she even mailed him a hand mixer packed in bubble wrap with a note tucked inside: You’re not allowed to live on vending machine snacks. This is my formal protest.

So he baked at night, when the halls went quiet and the kitchen was empty. It gave him space, a stretch of hours where he didn’t have to think about anything if he didn’t want to. Just measuring, mixing, wiping counters, setting timers. The rhythm was its own kind of calm.

He’d stand at the counter in his socks, hoodie sleeves shoved up, watching the oven window as if it might tell him something. Sometimes he hummed whatever song had been stuck in his head all day. Sometimes he let the silence settle in, broken only by the tick of the timer, the low hum of the fridge, the warm scent drifting through the room.

By the end of his first semester, Evan Buckley—business major on paper—was mostly known around Penn State for the smell of cinnamon that clung to him. It sank into his sleeves, his notebooks, even his hair. Some weeks it was vanilla, other weeks browned butter, depending on what he’d pulled together in the dorm kitchen at two in the morning.

It wasn’t the kind of image that screamed future finance intern, but he’d stopped worrying about that by second semester. People smiled when they caught the scent in passing, and that was enough. Baking stayed with people in ways business never could.

Besides, business was the backup plan. A safety net. Something practical he kept in his back pocket for when life inevitably threw a punch.

The real dream lived two blocks off campus, tucked between a laundromat and a nail salon. Butter & Crumb. A little bakery run by Fran and Leo, who were old enough to call everyone “kiddo” but still manned the register themselves and treated their sourdough starter like family. Evan had asked about volunteering, completely forgetting a résumé, and Fran handed him an apron before he even finished the question.

The job was good, humble and steady. He came back to the dorms with flour in his shoes and streaks of jam under his nails. He learned how to pipe roses without crushing the bag, how to knead dough without bruising it. Paychecks covered tuition for weekend culinary classes across town—courses with long names like Advanced Patisserie and The Science of Ganache that sounded far fancier than he felt.

He never went back to Hershey.

There was nothing waiting for him back there—just a house with two people who hadn’t asked about his life in years. The ones who did care were in Penn State, scattered across the country, or saved in his phone under names like “Coach D 🏀” and “Talbot 🫀DO NOT IGNORE.”

His old teammates checked in too. They’d all gone their own ways—trade schools, colleges, one of them in the Navy—but holidays and birthdays still brought group texts full of “remember when” stories that made him laugh in the middle of whatever dull lecture he was stuck in.

College ball wasn’t the same. No state titles, no victory rides with the bus shaking from everyone shouting. But there was comfort in the routine—open gym, pickup games, laughter echoing under bad lights, sneakers squeaking in rhythms only they understood. He didn’t need to be captain, didn’t need to chase NBA dreams. What he had was enough.

That October night was colder than usual, the kind of crisp air that kept most people inside. Evan had claimed the dorm kitchen again, sleeves pushed up, earbuds in, focused on buttercream and cupcakes he didn’t owe anyone. He’d finally figured out the caramel filling, and someone had to confirm it wasn’t just in his head.

He didn’t notice the door open, but he felt it—the subtle shift that came with knowing you weren’t alone anymore.

Turning, he pulled one earbud out and froze.

A girl stood there, hoodie and leggings, sneakers scuffed, granola bar half-eaten in her hand. Her eyebrows lifted in curiosity.

“Are you... breaking in?” she asked, tilting her head.

“What?” Evan blinked.

She pointed at the mixer running behind him. “It’s midnight, and you’ve got a whole setup going.”

“I live here,” he said dryly. “This is my bakery now, I’ve claimed it.”

Her smirk widened. “So, tell me, bakery man, is this a regular thing, or am I catching you in the middle of some weird crime?”

He chuckled, tension slipping out of his shoulders. “No crimes, just cupcakes.”

“Caramel?” She sniffed the air, suspicious. “That’s evil. Now I’m going to want sugar until sunrise.”

He hesitated, then held out one from the rack. “You can have one. But only if you don’t call campus security.”

She took it with exaggerated reverence, peeling the wrapper slowly. One bite in, her eyes widened. “Oh my god,” she mumbled through crumbs. “Are you a wizard or something?”

“Amateur baker,” he said, smiling despite himself. “Kind of.”

She grinned, unfiltered. “I’m Avery. Two floors up. Usually, I only come down here for instant noodles and regret.”

“Evan,” he offered. “Guess that makes me your sugar dealer now.”

“Bless you, Evan the Sugar Wizard.”

From that night, she kept showing up. Not every evening, but enough that it became familiar. She’d knock lightly and wander in with a snack or homework she didn’t really want help with. Sometimes she brought music. Sometimes she just sat and let him ramble about frosting or how ovens could betray you when they ran too hot. She didn’t always follow every word, but she always laughed in the right places.

They started hanging out outside the kitchen too—walking to class together, study breaks that turned into snack runs, late-night walks to the gas station when neither of them could sleep.

There wasn’t a single moment where friendship shifted into something else. More like a string of smaller ones. Her head resting on his shoulder during a movie. His hoodie missing for a week without either of them mentioning it. The way she leaned into him when she was tired and not thinking too hard about it. One day they were friends, and then they were still friends, but now there was handholding, and kissing, and dumb inside jokes that only really worked at two in the morning when the world felt softer than usual.

They never really talked about labels, and it didn’t feel like they had to. Everyone around them seemed to get it, and so did they. She made him playlists, he made her muffins. Sometimes they argued, usually over little things—her habit of bailing on plans, his tendency to shut down when he was overwhelmed—but it never blew up bigger than it needed to. They figured each other out, even on the rough days. Maybe especially then.

It lasted longer than anything Evan had ever been part of before. Long enough for patterns to set in. Long enough that he could read her mood in the way she walked into a room. Long enough that her stuff ended up scattered around his space without needing to ask.

And then, a week before graduation, it ended.

Not with a fight, not with tears. Just a quiet conversation on a bench outside their building. She had a job lined up back east and he was planning to travel. Neither of them said forever, neither of them tried to promise something they couldn’t keep.

That didn’t mean it hadn’t mattered. It just meant they weren’t the same people they’d been when it started, and that wasn’t a failure. She was still his friend, that part stayed, and that was what mattered most to him anyway.

The morning of graduation came too bright. Evan tugged at the edges of his gown, stiff and loose at the same time, and tried not to sweat through his shirt as he shifted his weight on the grass.

He wasn’t top of the class. No special cords or medals beyond the standard honors ones. But standing in line, cap tilted off-center, program clutched in his hand, he felt his chest fill with a warmth he recognized.

Pride.

He’d done it. He’d pushed, worked, carved out space in a life that had never really made room for him.

The ceremony dragged the way graduations always did—names, clapping, families cheering too soon. Evan kept his expression calm and his smile polite, eyes drifting through the crowd now and then.

He already knew his parents weren’t there. They hadn’t even acknowledged the invite. No text or call, not even a half-hearted excuse.

But Maddie—he’d thought maybe. He hadn’t seen her in almost ten years, but he’d tracked down her address, sent a letter, tucked the invitation inside with a folded photo of him in his apron. She hadn’t written back and he told himself it was fine.

Still, the hurt was there. But it was not a new feeling, more like an old bruise that ached if you pressed on it. Familiar and manageable.

Therapy had taught him that much.

He didn’t have to keep reopening the wound just because it hadn’t healed the way he wanted it to.

So, when his name was called, Evan walked steady across the stage. He smiled for the camera, shook the dean’s hand with a grip that didn’t falter, and let the applause wash over him.

After, as the crowd scattered into hugs and photos and tossed caps, he slipped toward the edge of the field where his teammates had gathered. Beers were hidden under gowns, sun already burning at their skin, laughter spilling out easy as ever.

“Buckley!” Luke yelled, barreling toward him with the energy of a golden retriever in a graduation gown. “Look at this guy. A whole college graduate. We made it! Can you even believe it?”

“Not really,” Evan admitted, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. “Feels like I’m still gonna wake up late for class tomorrow.”

The team crowded around, pulling him into hugs that felt more like tackles, backslaps heavy enough to sting if not for the layers of polyester gowns. Laughter spilled out in all directions, the kind that left your ribs aching in the best way.

Then someone tapped his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” came a gentle voice from behind. “I’m looking for the best baker in this graduating class.”

Evan turned, and for a second the world tilted.

Mrs. Jones stood there, holding a bouquet of sunflowers, looking completely out of place and yet exactly right. Her floral dress caught the breeze, her smile as warm and steady as it had always been.

“You came,” Evan said, his voice catching at the edge.

“Of course I came, sweetheart.” She pulled him into a hug before he could blink. “You didn’t think I’d let you get away without one last squeeze, did you?”

It was ridiculous how fast the tears came. Just a few, quick enough to swipe away if he wanted, but real all the same. When they pulled apart, he managed, “You didn’t have to bring flowers.”

“Nonsense.” She pressed the bouquet into his hands. “Sunflowers are for people who make everyone else feel brighter just by being there. Tell me that’s not you.”

His throat tightened too much for words. He just nodded, clutching the flowers close like they were worth more than anything else he owned.

Maddie hadn’t come.

But he didn’t need her to.

There was peace in finally letting go.

Chapter Text

At twenty-two, Evan Buckley packed his life into a backpack and a duffel, strapped them to his bike, and decided the road was going to teach him the things textbooks never could.

There was something both terrifying and free about waking up without a fixed address. His “plan” was really just a list of pins in the note’s app on his phone—Boston, Philly, Charleston, New Orleans, Austin, maybe Mexico City, and eventually San Diego.

It wasn’t about having a clear path. It was about moving, learning, and moving again.

He started on the East Coast, hopping between bakeries and cafés. In Providence, Eli taught him how to make bagels properly, swearing the secret was in the water. In New York, a relentless kitchen broke him in with twelve-hour shifts and trays of burnt croissants until he finally got the timing right.

Sometimes he was paid in cash, sometimes with a bed to crash in, sometimes just in the comfort of being welcomed into a kitchen that wasn’t his. Flour on his arms, butter in the air, voices echoing against tile—it was enough. He picked up recipes and accents like souvenirs, stayed long enough in some towns to be recognized at corner stores.

Down South, everything turned richer, sweeter. Pralines in Savannah. Buttermilk biscuits in Jackson, where the family who ran the café swore the real trick was cold hands. He still dreamed about those biscuits.

And then there was Peru.

It hadn’t been on the list. Miami was supposed to be the stop—maybe find work in a Cuban bakery with guava pastries—but then he met Marco, a traveler who spoke about Lima like it was the only place that mattered if you loved food. A week later, Evan was on a plane with his recipe journal and eight years of Spanish tucked away in his brain.

Thank God for Mrs. Jones.

She’d been the one nudging him to stick with Spanish through college. “One day you’ll thank me,” she’d said, “when you’re charming strangers and ordering pastries in places people only dream about.”

She hadn’t been wrong.

Lima was loud and chaotic in the best way. Evan bartended part-time at a beach bar that turned into a club after dark, and in the mornings he baked with Lucía, a pastry chef who ignored measuring cups but could eyeball ingredients with perfect accuracy.

Again, he silently thanked Mrs. Jones.

He learned tres leches that practically dissolved on the tongue, delicate alfajores with dulce de leche centers, and once, after watching a soap opera finale that had everyone in tears, he made a tequila-lime mousse he swore tasted exactly like heartbreak.

The nights were wild—arguments, breakups, reconciliations shouted over music. Evan thrived in it. He laughed more in those few months than he had in years. Weekly updates to Mrs. Jones became routine, sometimes dessert photos, sometimes just the gossip.

Last night a bartender slapped a sous-chef with a lobster tail. I didn’t even ask why, he wrote once. Some things are better left unknown.

She sent back strings of laughing emojis and said she’d save him a chapter in her memoir.

By the time he hit the West Coast—tanned, exhausted, carrying a mental cookbook that could rival Gordon Ramsay—he felt something change. He wasn’t running anymore. He wasn’t proving himself or trying to fill some space left empty. He was just living. And for once, he felt like maybe he was ready to put down roots.

Los Angeles wasn’t in the plan either. It happened anyway.

He’d only meant to visit for a weekend. Three days. That was it. Luke had texted out of the blue: Yo, I heard you were close. Come to a Lakers game. Get your ass to L.A.

Evan could never say no to Luke. After everything—late-night study sessions, the cursed roach named Gary, the unforgettable disaster of that slow cooker meal—they just didn’t ignore each other’s calls.

Evan had expected the trip to be quick—cheer at the game, crash on Luke’s couch, maybe grab tacos before heading out again. But the city got under his skin.

It didn’t make sense. L.A. was messy, loud, and relentless. The traffic alone tested his patience daily. The air was part sea salt, part smog, and everywhere he turned people were shouting over brunch or walking tiny dogs in sweaters while tourists treated murals like holy sites. It was nothing like the quiet bakeries he’d grown used to slipping in and out of.

But it had something.

Maybe it was the light. Mornings were soft and lazy, like the sun wasn’t in any rush either. Maybe it was the way every café seemed to hold a mix of people scribbling about their “healing journey” while someone at the next table pitched a startup. The contrast made him laugh.

And then there was surfing.

He hadn’t gone out planning to try it. One of Luke’s friends—Ty, who managed to be a fitness model, massage therapist, and plant-based donut entrepreneur all at once—handed him a board at dawn and dragged him to Venice Beach.

“Worst-case scenario,” Ty said with a grin, “you wipe out and eat sand. Best-case, you look hot while you’re at it.”

Standing ankle-deep in the Pacific, board tucked awkwardly under his arm, Evan thought, This is going to be a disaster.

It kind of was. At first. He wiped out enough times to choke on half the ocean. But then—maybe on his fourth or fifth try—he caught a wave. The lift of it, the breeze cutting past, the water sparking with morning light—it all hit at once. He laughed, salt still burning his throat, because it felt incredible.

By the time he made it back to shore, soaked and grinning, something inside him had clicked. Maybe this place could be home.

That night, Luke was passed out at one end of the couch halfway through a movie, still buzzing faintly from post-game adrenaline, while Evan scrolled through his DMs on the other. The usual flood was waiting:

—Where’s your next pop-up, Baker Evan?
—Are you finally opening a bakery or just teasing us forever?
—I need your orange blossom scones again. Please. I’m begging.

And then one stood out. A girl from Santa Monica. She’d tried his matcha cake at a Portland farmers market.

If you ever open something in L.A., I’ll be first in line.

Evan stared at it longer than he meant to. The words didn’t feel like pressure the way they used to. They felt like possibility. Why not now? He had the skills, the following, the recipes. He’d spent years baking in other people’s kitchens. Maybe it was time to tell his own story.

The thought stayed with him the next day when he pulled on a Lakers jersey with Luke’s number and cheered from the nosebleeds. Luke had always been the loud one, the hype man, the shove on the shoulder when you were being dumb, the hug that hung on just a little longer when you needed it. Watching him now, in an actual Lakers uniform, made Evan’s chest swell in a way even his own graduation hadn’t.

He yelled until his voice cracked.

After the win, he didn’t even have a chance to hesitate before Luke had him by the neck, pulling him into the afterparty like they were still nineteen. “This is the real show, man. Get ready.”

Evan tried.

The house was massive, all fountains and unused kitchens, even bigger than Luke’s own place. Music pulsed through the floors. People shouted, danced, snapped selfies under chandeliers. Evan ended up leaning against the island with a drink he didn’t remember picking up, dazed but smiling as the night spun around him.

That’s when it happened—the recognition.

“Yo, are you Evan Buckley?” a tall guy in a Lakers hoodie asked, blinking like he wasn’t sure he believed it. “The baking dude on Instagram?”

Evan turned mid-sip, thrown off. “Uh… yeah?”

“Man! Your videos are the best. I watch them before bed, they’re so chill.”

“Same,” another player said from across the island, grinning. “I made your bourbon brownies for my girlfriend’s birthday. Pretty sure that’s why she’s still with me after all the crap I’ve put her through.”

Evan blinked. “Wait, you actually did the swirl on top?”

“Dude, exactly! I even bought the fancy salt you use.”

Evan laughed, covering his face as his cheeks went red. It never stopped being strange, people recognizing him. Strange, but sweet. He’d only started the page as an easier way to share recipes and adventures with his friends and teachers back in Hershey. Somehow that turned into being a food influencer.

Social media was weird like that.

Someone pulled up one of his reels—a slow pour of chocolate ganache—and the whole group crowded around to watch like it was art.

“I gotta ask,” one of the coach assistants said, “are you finally opening your own bakery? Or are you just gonna keep torturing us by posting videos from other people’s kitchens?”

It was said with a grin, but the question hit harder than they knew. Evan smiled stiffly and threw out a vague, “We’ll see. Maybe soon.” But the thought stayed.

The party kept going, loud and messy, until he slipped out onto the balcony. The city stretched wide in front of him, lights blinking against the sprawl. Behind the glass, the noise dulled. He leaned on the railing, fingers cold from his drink, and let the assistant’s words echo in his head. Maybe that wasn’t enough anymore.

L.A. was too loud, too crowded, too expensive. But maybe that was why he liked it. Maybe it reminded him of himself—messy, imperfect, but full of possibility.

And maybe it was time.

The next morning sunlight poured in through Luke’s tall kitchen windows, catching on to marble counters and chrome fixtures that looked more decorative than practical. The place was pristine, styled more than lived in. The only sign of life was Evan, barefoot in faded pajamas, standing at the stove flipping sweet potato hash. Steam curled up from the pan, and another skillet sizzled with scrambled eggs brightened by spinach.

Luke stumbled in with his hair a mess, hoodie hanging off his shoulders, socks that didn’t match. He stretched with a groan. “Man, this is giving me flashbacks. You, cooking for the squad, trying to convince us vegetables weren’t out to get us.”

Evan smirked, pushing eggs onto a plate. “I still have nightmares about the time you tried to microwave a steak.”

“It should’ve worked,” Luke said, putting on mock seriousness as he leaned against the counter. “Science failed me.”

They both cracked up, easy as always.

“I missed you,” Evan said, sliding a plate toward him.

Luke grinned. “I missed you too, bro. Mostly your cooking, though.”

Evan rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face faltered for a second. Of course Luke caught it.

“What’s up?” he asked, eyebrows lifting just enough to show he wasn’t joking now. “You’ve been brooding since you got here. And I know brooding. I’ve watched Batman.”

Evan didn’t answer right away. He plated his own food, sat down across from him, and picked at his eggs. Finally, he let it out.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” he said, quiet but sure. “I’ve been everywhere the last couple years, telling myself I’d just know when I found the right city. When it finally felt like home.”

He looked up then, eyes glassy but not sad, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“And then I got here. To L.A. And it just… clicked. And I think—” Evan paused, thumb tracing the rim of his mug “—I think I’m ready to stop drifting. I want to stay, to put down roots, and build something.”

Luke blinked at him before a grin broke wide across his face, dimples deep. “You’re serious? You’re actually thinking about settling here?”

“Yeah.” Evan shrugged, smiling like he wasn’t sure he should be saying it out loud. “I think I finally found my city. And… I want to open my bakery here. For real.”

Luke let out a whoop so loud Evan almost dropped his fork, then leaned across the counter to hug him, knocking the juice dangerously close to spilling. “Dude, that’s amazing! I mean, I love my team, but none of them are you. I can’t believe you’ll actually be here, in the same city, all the time.”

“I’m not moving into your mansion,” Evan said with a laugh, muffled into the hug.

Luke pulled back, feigning injury. “Wow. Here I was, ready to give you your own wing.”

“Tempting,” Evan admitted. “But I need a kitchen that’s mine. One I can destroy without worrying about ruining a magazine spread.”

Luke laughed, shaking his head. “Fair. Just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“When you’re famous and your bakery’s all over Food Network, don’t forget me. I want a discount. Or at least a secret menu item named after me. The Lukey Loaf.”

Evan snorted. “That’s terrible. And it’s happening.”

“You need help with anything? Not just money—like, anything. A van, contacts, taste-testing, whatever. You know I got you.” Luke said it like it was nothing, the same way he’d once offered to split a rotisserie chicken back in college.

Evan shook his head, smiling. “I appreciate it. Really. But I’m good financially. I didn’t spend much traveling. I slept mostly on couches, floors, once even a walk-in pantry—long story.”

Luke made a face. “Still blows my mind you’re not living like royalty off those cinnamon roll videos.”

“I mean… kind of am,” Evan said, sheepish. “The sponsorships and reels pay better than I expected. Apparently, people love watching dough rise in 4K.”

Luke snorted. “Should’ve gone into food porn myself.”

Evan laughed, then leaned in a little. “But if you do have real estate contacts—especially someone with patience for a first-time bakery owner with very particular counterspace dreams—that’d help a lot.”

Luke perked up immediately. “Actually, yeah. The woman who sold me this place—Helena. She’s a legend and knows the whole city, I’ll make sure to text her.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Of course,” Luke said, then pointed his fork in mock warning. “But if you even think about finding some janky apartment when I’ve got an entire guest wing sitting empty—”

“I know, I know,” Evan cut in, raising his hands. “I’ll stay here until I find something good. Promise.”

“Good.” Luke leaned back with a satisfied nod, like he’d just negotiated a contract. “House is too quiet without you anyway.”

That afternoon, Luke made good on his word. He FaceTimed Helena by the pool, sprawled on a lounge chair while Evan sat cross-legged on a cushion with a notebook open and a lemon tart cooling on the table behind them like proof of concept.

Helena appeared on screen with white hair cut into a sleek bob, lipstick the color of cherry jam, and an expression that suggested she’d seen everything and was ready for more. “So, you’re the cinnamon roll celebrity,” she said, eyes twinkling.

Evan smiled. “I prefer ‘sugar wizard,’ but yeah, that’s me.”

She laughed, sharp and bright. “Luke tells me you’re hunting for a place to start your first bakery.”

“That’s the plan. Something small but warm. Big kitchen, good street presence, neighborhood feel. I want it to be a community spot.”

Helena nodded, already thinking it through. “Eastside. Echo Park, maybe Highland Park. Somewhere with character.”

Evan tilted his head. “You think a bakery with a soul fits in L.A.?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, amused. “This city’s starving for soul. You just have to know where to put it.”

And that’s where it began.

Finding a place for a bakery sounded dreamy in theory—the kind of thing people scribbled in journals or whispered over coffee. One day I’ll open a little shop. I’ll smile at every customer and everyone will be happy.

The reality was messier.

Health codes, zoning laws, permits for parking, inspections that cared about the exact angle of a sink. Plumbing, electrical, leases, equipment lists that never seemed to end. And that was before Evan even touched the fun stuff, like signs or pastry cases.

Helena did not intimidate easily.

Ten-hour days in the sun, traffic jams that could turn anyone else into a wreck—she showed up in a sharp blazer with a latte that always matched what Evan wanted, her tablet already queued with new listings. Her humor was dry and her pace relentless, but she had this steadiness about her that Evan leaned on more than he realized.

Every time another space fell through, she just said, “Don’t worry, Evan. We’ll find your bakery,” like it was a fact.

At first, he wondered if maybe he was being too picky. Maybe he wasn’t ready. But Helena never made him feel that way. She just kept unlocking doors and letting him look until one finally stuck.

It was a Thursday morning when it happened.

An old café on a corner in Silver Lake. Narrow front, wood floors worn soft, chalkboard walls faded but still standing. A huge wraparound window that let the sun pour in like the building wanted company.

The kitchen was already there—deep sinks, big ovens, sturdy prep stations, even a walk-in freezer that hummed like it had history. Out back, a patio with iron tables and bougainvillea climbing the fence, messy but full of charm. Enough space for someone to drink coffee with a croissant and a paperback.

And upstairs, behind a weathered blue door, a tiny studio apartment. Slanted angles, odd corners, but a window that faced west and caught the light just right, painting the walls gold in the late afternoon.

Evan walked through quietly, taking it in—the pulse of the place, the imagined footsteps of future customers. Finally, he said, “This is it.” Barely above a whisper.

Helena caught it. She gave a slow nod, like she’d known since they pulled up. “It is, isn’t it?”

The price was within reach, surprisingly so. A hidden gem, Helena called it, overlooked in favor of sleeker, shinier spaces. But Evan didn’t want shiny. He wanted something real. He signed without hesitation, hands shaking a little, smile impossible to wipe off his face.

He moved in the next day. Just a couple of duffel bags and his baking gear, which took up more room than his clothes ever did. He set his favorite spatula in the utensil holder and stood in the middle of his new kitchen, turning in a slow circle, letting it sink in.

This was his.

The apartment upstairs was enough. More than enough. He didn’t need anything bigger, not yet. Maybe one day there’d be someone else to share it with, someone for burnt toast mornings and slow Sundays. Until then, it was perfect.

That night, he baked.

Lavender shortbread. Honey-fig scones. He left a plate by the door, an offering, a hello to the neighborhood.

Welcome home.

The name came later, almost by accident.

Sitting on the floor of the apartment surrounded by paint swatches and takeout containers, flour still dusting his cheek, he scrawled “The Buckery” in a notebook and laughed at how ridiculous it sounded. He tried others—E. Buckle’s, Golden Crumb, Rise—but none of them stuck.

The Buckery did. It was warm, a little odd, and undeniably him.

Instagram agreed with him.

He filmed the walkthrough the day after the sale closed, phone in hand, narrating in a mix of awe and nervous energy.
“Okay, so this is where the counter’s going—yes, I already have plans for a pie and cake display right here—and the back patio needs work, but in a few weeks you’ll be drinking espresso out there, maybe even crying over a croissant. I fully support both.”

He posted it without knowing if anyone would even care.

They cared.

Comments came in fast—people who’d been to his pop-ups, who remembered his food truck summers, who still joked about that time he spilled flour across his laptop during a virtual puff pastry class. They weren’t just supportive, they were invested. They sent tips, playlists, even suggestions for patio plants.

Don’t forget hooks under the counter for bags!
Make a corner for laptop loners please.
Seasonal pastries? I need to be dramatic about autumn.

Evan read every comment, most of them twice, and he listened. He added hooks, he carved out a cozy nook with pillows and a single lamp, and he tested seasonal flavors like it was life or death—pumpkin chai, maple pecan, cranberry rosemary. One night he asked for playlist help and ended up with five crowdsourced Spotify lists, ranging from Warm Mornings & Buttered Toast to Pastries & Petty Breakups.

The days were long. His hands ached more than not. His arms were streaked with paint, his hair dusted in flour, and at one point he actually dozed off leaning against the walk-in freezer. Still, he felt more alive than he ever had.

He painted the walls himself—soft sage green with copper shelves. Hung a thrifted chalkboard menu with lines that leaned just slightly, which he decided counted as charm. Hauled a vintage espresso machine out of storage and had it restored by Emilio, a repairman who swore like a sailor but fixed it perfectly and took almond cookies as part of his payment.

Mrs. Jones texted nightly.
Mrs. J: I hope you’re eating more than scone scraps. I’m watching.
Evan: Define “more.” I had six scone scraps and a leftover quiche bite. That’s variety.
Mrs. J: I raised you better than this.

And Luke, of course, checked in with his own brand of encouragement.
Luke: Need me to lift anything? Smash anything? Be emotionally supportive but look cool doing it?
Evan: You can label the syrup bottles.
Luke: On my way.

The Buckery came together piece by piece, like dough rising slowly but steady.

He printed the logo—clean lines, a whisk in place of the “k.”

When opening day finally arrived, it felt unreal, like he’d been holding his breath for years and only just let it out. The line wrapped down the block before the sun was up. People came bundled in hoodies, sunglasses shielding sleepy eyes, clutching iced coffees from other shops like they needed a placeholder until The Buckery opened. There were cameras, chatter, that electric hum of something new.

Evan stood behind the counter with flour smudged on his sleeve and butter streaking his apron, lit up from the inside. He’d barely slept—maybe three hours—but adrenaline had carried him since dawn.

The air was heavy with cardamom buns and fresh espresso. Sunlight streamed through the big windows, washing the space in gold. Every seat in the nook was already full. A woman with pink hair sat cross-legged with a book, nibbling lavender shortbread. A dad and his two kids tore into banana muffins, their tops round and glossy, just the way Evan had always liked them.

Some customers even wore Buckery merch—shirts and tote bags he hadn’t designed, clearly homemade or ordered from fans who had time and talent to spare.

And he saw familiar faces.

“Evan!” someone shouted from the back of the line. “It’s Savannah! I bought six loaves of pumpkin bread from you in Vermont!”

He laughed. “You’re the reason I had to start handwriting extra recipe cards.”

More greetings came, more hugs, even a couple from Austin who brought him a homemade apron with sugar wizard stitched across the chest. But nothing affected him quite like seeing Mrs. Jones.

She walked in like she already belonged there, even though it was her first time in L.A. A yellow scarf wrapped around her neck, sunglasses perched on her nose, and a smile that made the whole front room feel brighter.

Evan darted out from behind the counter and met her halfway, wrapping her up in a hug so tight the crowd actually let out a collective aww.

“You really flew me first class,” she murmured into his ear, her voice catching a little. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You’re the reason I’m even here,” Evan said, pulling back enough to look at her. “Of course you deserved first class.”

She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue pulled from her sleeve, shaking her head. “Well,” she sniffled, “I’m very proud of you. And I fully intend to try everything on the menu.”

And she did.

As if the day wasn’t already surreal, it tipped into full-on absurd when Luke showed up just before noon—sunglasses on, Lakers hat pulled low—and dragged a few of his teammates along with him.

The news crews followed about an hour later.

Evan nearly dropped a tray of cookies when he spotted the cameras coming through the door. Luke grinned like he’d orchestrated the whole thing. “Told you I’d make you famous.”

“I was already famous,” Evan whispered, flustered and laughing under his breath, “just in a quieter, very food-specific corner of the internet.”

“Exactly,” Luke replied smugly. “Now you’re famous-famous. You’re welcome.”

One of the players posted a selfie of Evan handing him a slice of chocolate whiskey cake, captioned: Best bakery in L.A. Don’t @ me. By the end of the day, it had over 400,000 likes.

Somewhere in the chaos, Evan got pulled outside for an impromptu interview, still wearing his apron, doing his best to sound polished while running on adrenaline and joy.

“Did you expect this kind of turnout?” the reporter asked.

“No,” Evan admitted. “I figured a few regulars, maybe some curious neighbors. Not… this.” He gestured at the line still stretching down the block. “But I’m grateful. More than I can say.”

By closing time, every pastry was gone, and he’d baked through the day just to keep up. Evan stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at it all.

His bakery.

The Buckery.

Alive, noisy, and loved.

He stepped back inside, closed the door, and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He’d actually done it.

The next six months blurred together in butter, sugar, coffee, and the quiet thrill of waking up with a reason. Running a bakery turned out to be less about calm mornings with jazz and more about organized chaos with dough emergencies thrown in. He didn’t even bother setting alarms anymore—his body just got up at 4:45, like the ovens were calling him.

The Buckery was a hit. The can’t-keep-up-with-demand, every-day-feels-like-opening-day kind of hit.

Most mornings started with Evan elbow-deep in flour, a podcast buzzing in the background, two timers beeping while he tried not to burn a tray of almond croissants that already had their own cult following.

By noon, the display case was half empty. By two, the patio filled with regulars who treated it like their living room. And by evening, when the sign flipped to closed, Evan was usually still working—bent over his counter, piping sugar flowers or lettering custom cakes.

The custom cake side of things blew up fast. It started with birthdays, then rolled into baby showers, weddings, bachelorettes, stag nights, even divorce parties—which, if he was honest, were kind of his favorite.

Something about piping phrases like Good Riddance, Todd or Finally Free and Fabulous in delicate cursive always lifted his mood. The scorned exes were some of his best customers—polite to a fault, generous with tips, and surprisingly imaginative when it came to cake designs.

“Can you make it look like he’s being eaten by a shark?” one woman asked him once, completely serious.

Evan blinked. “...Fondant shark or buttercream?”

He didn’t turn any request down. He never turned down the creative ones.

No matter how over-the-top, no matter how little sleep he’d gotten, no matter how many cake tiers he’d already stacked before most people were even awake, Evan found himself grinning through it.

He was exhausted, sure. But it was the good kind of exhausted—the kind that said my life matters. He was feeding people, turning joy into something edible.

And the payoff was always in the faces.

There was this look people got when they tasted something they loved—like everything else fell away except that bite. Shoulders dropping, eyes closing, sometimes a little hum of satisfaction. Once, a teenager even teared up over a cinnamon roll.

Those looks kept him going. That, and an unhealthy amount of espresso.

Of course, the trade-offs were there. His social life was basically his staff, a handful of regulars, and the UPS guy, who had started bringing him packs of cinnamon gum like it was their thing now. Surfing had become a distant memory. Dating app notifications piled up unread beneath texts from suppliers and cake orders.

But sometimes, near closing, when the bakery finally fell quiet and the patio out back turned gold with the setting sun, Evan would take a mug outside and just sit on the steps. Breathing.

The noise paused then. Just long enough to remind him why he’d done all of this.

He never said this is enough out loud—saying it felt like tempting fate, like the universe might overhear and take it back. But in those quiet minutes, with the smell of sugar cooling in the kitchen and the city murmuring in the background, Evan felt like the person he’d been working toward becoming for years.

Whole. Happy. Rooted.

Maybe he should get that printed in a t-shirt or a welcome mat...?

Chapter Text

Evan padded down the narrow stairs from his apartment. It was just past five a.m., that quiet stretch where the city still felt half-asleep. His sweatshirt hung low on one shoulder, curls flattened on one side, and he hadn’t even made it to the coffee pot yet.

He yawned, stretched until his back popped, and shook out legs still sore from too many hours on his feet the day before. He’d trained for endurance at Penn State, sure—but that had never included piping buttercream roses for four straight hours or wrestling with a stubborn pizza oven that decided to act its age at the worst possible moments.

Still, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

One by one, he flicked on the lights. Stainless counters, worn cutting boards, and the faint ghost of flour from yesterday’s rush came into focus. Bone-tired or not, a kind of satisfaction filled him. He lived above a bakery he’d built himself. He fed people every day. He was, in the simplest sense, doing exactly what he’d once dreamed about. Not bad for a kid who thought the only way to be noticed was to show up bruised.

First up: dough. Croissants. His morning lineup changed monthly—this round was dark chocolate, pistachio, and plain. Then the dessert of the month, the piece that gave The Buckery its reputation. Every month, Evan picked a dessert that celebrated a different state. Sometimes it was the kind of thing everyone’s grandma had baked at least once, sometimes it was so obscure they had to Google it twice before they even understood what it was.

Last month he’d gone with buckeyes from Ohio—a wink at his own last name that had everyone rolling their eyes but eating them anyway. Before that, peach cobbler, a quiet nod to Mrs. Jones and her stories about Atlanta summers. And the month before that? Boston Cream Pie, the state desert of Massachusetts.

It had turned into its own ritual. People teased him for the theatrics, but they showed up for it, orders ready, pretending not to care until the first bite shut them up. That was the fun of it for Evan—grinning across the table, not just pleased the recipe had worked but feeling, for a moment, like he’d managed to pull everyone into the same story.

Now it was New York cheesecake. Dense, rich, graham cracker crust tweaked with brown butter and just enough cinnamon to come through without taking over. Toppings changed daily—blueberry, cherry, mango ginger, and one plain with a caramel swirl that somehow outsold all the rest. He made a mental note, scribbled it on a receipt, and slapped it under a croissant magnet on the fridge: cheesecake corner? branding??

By six, the kitchen smelled like heaven. Muffins rising, bagel dough resting, pizzas already par-baking for the laptop crowd who never left after breakfast. Lunch hadn’t been in the original plan, but when he’d discovered the old pizza oven still worked, he couldn’t resist. It became its own ritual—breakfast for early birds, lunch for stragglers, and sweets for everyone else.

The bell on the front door jingled. He straightened from checking the bagels, already smiling.

“Good morning, Boss.”

In perfect sync, as always.

Kate and Karina stepped inside, coffees in hand, looking like mirror images with mismatched shirts. Kate’s read Cool Moms Bake Cookies. Karina’s had a croissant with a knife and the caption Crumb and Get It. Evan had stopped asking where they find them.

“You rehearsed that on the way here, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Obviously,” Kate said, tying her hair back as she headed straight for the sink.

“We take morale seriously,” Karina added, pulling on her apron. “Mocking the boss helps.”

Evan chuckled, wiping flour from his palms onto his apron. “Fine. Let’s get moving.”

He handed them the prep sheets he’d scribbled out before dawn—color-coded, dotted with tiny smiley faces and arrows. They split tasks with the ease of routine. He’d hired them in the first month of opening, back when success meant he was up at midnight baking three hundred cupcakes alone with a twitch in his eye.

Kate and Karina had applied as a package deal. Twin sisters, both married, both with kids, and both completely unbothered by the fact that their new boss was nearly ten years younger than them.

“I just want to bake without being micromanaged or talked over,” Kate had said during the interview, sipping her iced latte like it was any other Tuesday. “You’re cute, you seem chill, and we like your vibe. So. When can we start?”

Evan had known right then they were a fit.

“Kate, you’re on cookies and brownies today,” he said now, sliding her a prep list. “The cookies selection of the month are oatmeal raisin, shortbread, and white chocolate macadamia. Brownies are fudge, cheesecake swirl, and blondies.”

Kate gave a brisk nod, already rolling her sleeves. “Oatmeal raisin? Really?”

“They’re underrated,” Evan answered. “Besides, Mr. Patel down the street promised to buy six every Wednesday.”

Karina skimmed her own list. “Turnovers and tarts?”

“You got it.”

She grinned. “Apple, cinnamon, and honey?”

“With the rough puff you prepped yesterday.”

“And tarts?” she asked, reaching for her tools.

“Apricot and pistachio, strawberry, and mixed berries.”

Karina peered over her glasses. “That mixed berry glaze better not be thin this time.”

Evan held up his hands. “I know, I know. Last batch was too runny. I fixed the cornstarch ratio.”

“I just like seeing you sweat,” she teased, smirking.

Evan rolled his eyes, still smiling.

The kitchen slipped into rhythm within minutes. Kate hummed quietly as she portioned cookie dough with practiced precision. Karina sliced strawberries at a pace only a mom who’d cut fruit for toddlers could match. The radio played a low mix of indie pop and old jazz in the background.

Evan checked on the New York cheesecakes chilling in the fridge. Perfectly even, golden edges just set. They were becoming a customer favorite, especially after one influencer declared it “a cheesecake so good it made me cry from joy.”

By 7 a.m., the front doors would open and the early crowd would filter in—parents grabbing coffee before school runs, dog walkers in fleece, tourists who’d found them on Instagram. But for now, it was just the three of them.

Evan pulled together his trays—two for croissants, one for cupcakes.

Croissants came first. Pistachio with their buttery green swirl and a sprinkle of nuts. Plain butter, so golden they almost glowed under the lights. Chocolate, glossy and rich, dusted with powdered sugar like fresh snow. People came in just for them—one guy even timed his commute to catch the chocolate ones still warm from the oven.

Evan smiled as he lined them up, inspecting each one like it was personal. No tears, no scorch marks, just perfect layers that cracked open with steam.

Then came the cupcakes.

Carrot, topped with cream cheese frosting piped in soft peaks, dusted with walnuts and nutmeg. Red velvet, deep and rich, spiraled with buttercream and finished with curls of dark chocolate.

And his favorite—The Breakfast Cupcake.

It had started as a dare. A customer had leaned across the counter once and said, “You’re good, Evan. But can you turn breakfast into a cupcake?”

Challenge accepted.

He built it on a coffee cake base, rich enough to smell like morning. In the center, a warm bacon compote—salty, smoky, just sweet enough. On top, espresso mousse piped like silk, finished with a shard of candied bacon standing tall.

It sold out every single day.

The one time Evan tried phasing it out, just to rotate the menu, backlash hit instantly. One woman even staged a “peaceful cupcake sit-in” in front of the case, refusing to move until he promised to bring it back.

They were back the next day.

Once the cupcakes were done, Evan moved over to help Kate and Karina with the cinnamon rolls. The smell filled the kitchen in no time—cinnamon, sugar, and just a hint of butter starting to brown.

They stood shoulder to shoulder at the long counter, trays lined with dough spirals ready for the oven.

“Alright,” Karina said, brushing flour from her hands, “once these are baking, we need to get going on the custom cakes. We’ve got two today, right?”

Evan slid a tray toward the oven. “Yep. One divorce party, one gender reveal.”

Kate grinned like Christmas had come early. “Divorce cakes are the best. People get so creative when they’re finally free.”

Evan snorted. “No kidding. You’ll love this—she sent me her request last night. She wants… well, a dick cake.”

Karina nearly dropped her whisk. “Excuse me?”

“A phallic-shaped Baked Alaska,” Evan clarified, deadpan. “And she wants to set it on fire.”

Silence. Then both sisters burst out laughing.

Kate bent over the counter, wiping her eyes. “You’re telling me she wants to flambé a penis?”

“I wish I was making this up,” Evan said, mock-wincing. “She’s even bringing her own lighter.”

Karina was still giggling as she dabbed at her eyes. “Make it a good one. Let her go out in style.”

Evan chuckled. “I’m thinking a meringue spiral, maybe some edible glitter. If she’s going to torch it, it should sparkle.”

Kate clapped once. “Perfect.”

Karina flipped open her notepad. “Okay, now the gender reveal. Ideas?”

“Something simple,” Evan said, rolling his neck. “The burn-away trend’s still big.”

Karina nodded. “Do a white frosting layer with a sonogram photo on top. They torch it, and underneath it says It’s a Girl! in pink.”

“Strawberry cake inside,” Evan added, warming up to it. “Fill it with pink sprinkles so it bursts when they cut it.”

Kate smiled at him. “I love how we do this—just build on each other’s ideas.”

“That’s teamwork,” Evan said, half-smiling. Then, almost without meaning to, he added, “It’s been… kind of nice this month.”

“You mean the part where the phones aren’t ringing off the hook and we can actually hear ourselves think?” Karina teased.

“Exactly.” Evan chuckled. “The furor’s dying down. People aren’t lining up at five a.m. just to get a seat anymore. But we’re not slowing down either.”

Kate arched a brow. “Still street-long lines every Fridays.”

“Still selling out most days,” Karina added.

“And custom cakes booked for three weeks solid,” Kate reminded him.

Evan nodded, a quiet pride showing through. We’re busy, just not frantic. But I don’t want us to get too comfortable. So, I’ve been thinking… limited edition baked goods. One week specials.”

Both sisters perked up instantly.

Evan grinned, knowing he had them. “Chocolate Day’s coming up next month. We could build a special menu—six chocolate-based items, available as singles or as a box set.”

“Oh yes,” Karina said right away. “M&M cookies. Non-negotiable. My kids will mutiny without them.”

“Already on the list,” Evan said. “I’m thinking Reese’s cupcakes too—chocolate base, peanut butter frosting, a chunk of Reese’s in the center.”

Kate whistled low. “That’s dangerous.”

“And a Snickers tart,” Evan went on. “Shortbread base, ganache, peanut-caramel layer, and nougat whipped cream on top.”

Karina groaned. “That should come with a warning label.”

“Hershey’s turnovers,” Kate added, licking a bit of frosting from her finger. “Puff pastry stuffed with bars. Simple, perfect.”

“Ooh, what about a Rocher croissant?” Karina said, eyes bright. “Nutella inside, crushed hazelnuts outside. Fancy, but still familiar.”

Evan scribbled everything down with a grin. “You two are too good at this.”

Kate smirked. “You trained us well, Boss.”

Karina tilted her head. “Alright then, what’s number six?”

Evan hesitated, then smiled. “Kinder cheesecake.”

There was a brief pause.

Then Kate and Karina turned to each other with matching smirks.

“Oh?” Karina said, one eyebrow lifting.

“A cheesecake,” Kate added, giving her sister a nudge. “Again?”

Evan groaned, though he was already laughing. “Okay, I haven’t decided if we’re officially making a cheesecake section—”

“You’ve already got three rotating flavors,” Karina reminded him.

“And New York cheesecake as the Dessert of the Month has been a big hit,” Kate said.

Evan tossed up his hands. “Kinder cheesecake just sounds too good not to try. And it makes six items, which is a solid number.”

“Mmmhmm,” the twins chimed together, unconvinced but clearly entertained.

“Fine,” Evan said, mock-defensive. “Maybe we’re edging toward a cheesecake menu. I’m just… testing the waters.”

Karina patted his shoulder as she passed. “Test away, Boss.”

Kate slid a tray of extra cookie dough into the fridge. “Just don’t pretend you’re not already sketching out a chalkboard for Cheesecake of the Month.”

Evan tried to glare, but the smile broke through anyway. They weren’t wrong. Still, he liked pretending these things took longer, letting ideas grow naturally. Like everything else at The Buckery, the cheesecake section wouldn’t come from strategy or market research. It would show up because it fit, because it made people happy. And that was the whole point.

The knock came just as he set a tray of pistachio croissants by the proofing cabinet. Sharp, confident—not the hesitant tap of a delivery driver or the sheepish double-knock of someone hoping for an early cinnamon roll.

Kate looked up from her station, flour clinging to her fingers. “You are expecting someone?”

Karina glanced at the clock. “The students aren’t due for another fifteen.”

Evan wiped his hands on a towel and headed for the door; apron dusted in cocoa and powdered sugar. “I’ll get it. You two keep going—we’re on a schedule.”

As he approached the front door, his brow furrowed. The figure on the other side wasn’t one of the students from the University of Southern California, who tended to the front counter and made the coffee and bagged the baked goods orders. Instead, it was a woman in LAPD blues, her posture straight but not stiff, the sergeant’s stripes on her sleeve were impossible to miss.

He unlocked the door and cracked it open, stepping into the cool breeze of morning. “Can I help you, officer?”

She gave a polite, measured smile. “Sergeant Athena Grant, LAPD. I’m here about a tip a Mr. Buckley left with us a month ago.”

Evan winced lightly. “That’s me. Though, uh… Mr. Buckley is my dad. Please, just Evan.”

Her smile softened. “Evan it is.”

“Come in,” he said, stepping aside. “It’s just me and my staff. The girls are in the kitchen.”

“I can tell,” she said as she walked in, breathing deep. “It smells incredible in here.”

He gave a tired chuckle. “Hazards of the workplace.”

Passing through the kitchen, Karina raised an eyebrow while Kate gave him a quick nod. Evan led Sergeant Grant down the back hallway, past the overstuffed pantry and the storage closet he still hadn’t organized, to his office. Small but tidy. A bulletin board pinned with cake orders and thank-you notes from kids. A struggling plant leaning in the corner.

“Please, sit,” Evan said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. She settled in with easy composure. “Coffee?”

“Espresso, if you’ve got it.”

He smiled. “My kind of guest.”

A few minutes later, he returned with two mugs—hers, a smooth espresso capped with a neat cream, his, a mocha heavy on the sugar. It was early, and if this was serious, he wanted the comfort.

Evan sat across from Sergeant Grant, hands wrapped around his mocha while she let her eyes wander around the room. She paused on the Penn State degree hanging behind him—still crooked from when he’d knocked it one night during inventory—then on the corkboard next to it. Photos everywhere: customers showing off cakes, travel shots, Mrs. Jones sneaking bunny ears, Coach Daniels looking proud as ever, and his old teammates demolishing cinnamon rolls at training camp.

She smiled, small and genuine. “You’re pretty young to be running all this.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and laughed. “Yeah… fair. It’s been a lot of work and school, but it’s worth it.”

“It shows,” she said, still scanning the wall. “You’ve done an excellent job. It’s impressive.”

The compliment hit differently than he expected—quiet, almost maternal. His throat caught up for a moment before he looked back down at his mug.

So, this is what it feels like, he thought. To have a mother praise you.

“Thanks,” he replied softly. She didn’t push, just took another sip of her espresso and waited. Evan nodded, grounding himself. “Right. The reason I called.”

He leaned forward. “About a month ago I was doing my rounds—what I call ‘the ground,’ though it sounds more dramatic than it is.” He smiled. “Basically me asking people if the playlist’s too loud, if the chairs wobble, if the food’s good. It’s my favorite part of the job.”

Grant gave a small nod, letting him go on.

“So, I head out to the patio,” he said, “and there’s this group of teenage girls. Sixteen, seventeen maybe. Loud and full of themselves. I’ve dealt with kids like that before. I even dated cheerleaders back in high school, before I figured out, I was way more interested in my basketball teammates than in holding pom-poms at parties.”

Grant raised a brow, amused. “Subtle.”

Evan snorted. “Yeah, I know. I do Pride Month confections every June, and half the year my Instagram icon’s the bi flag. Subtle’s not really my thing.”

“As you should,” she said, with no judgment behind it.

That earned her another smile.

“Anyway,” he went on, “something about them felt off. They weren’t just joking around. They were talking about a girl from their school, laughing about what they’d done to her. It was mean, in the worst way. I didn’t catch everything, but I heard enough to know I couldn’t just shrug it off.”

Grant’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“So, you filed the report,” she said.

He nodded. “I didn’t know if it would go anywhere. Maybe it was just talk. But it didn’t feel like just talk. So, I figured better to say something than regret staying quiet.”

She set her cup down and leaned in a little. “What exactly did they say?”

Evan sat straighter, his grin gone. “They said she ‘deserved it.’ That she’d been ‘asking for it’ for years. And one of them joked—actually joked—that they could get away with anything now. That ‘no one believes the quiet girls.’”

The words hung there.

He stared into his mug, the foam long gone. “I don’t get how anyone laughs about hazing, or cyberbullying, or assault. One of them even bragged about how close they were to pushing a girl to suicide.”

His hands tightened on the ceramic until his knuckles turned white.

“They were pissed,” Evan said, leaning back like he still couldn’t believe it. “Complained it used to be easier, but this one was dragging on. Said her mom was a cop, so if they went too far it might blow back on them. Even that didn’t sound like it worried them.”

He glanced at Grant, disbelief giving way to something more unsettling. “The ringleader just shrugged it off. Said her dad was a lawyer, that he’d gotten her out of worse. She said it like it was a joke. Like the world was rigged in her favor.”

Grant’s jaw tightened. She didn’t pick up her pen, didn’t even reach for her cup. She just listened, tension radiating off her body.

Evan shook his head, mouth twisting. “What got me was how loud they were. They didn’t check to see if anyone could hear. They were in a crowded bakery, laughing about ruining someone’s life like it was brunch talk.”

He let out a breath, shoulders easing slightly. “And the kicker? People caught it on their phones. They weren’t hiding a thing, showing no shame or hesitation, just entitlement on full display.”

He rubbed his thumb over the rim of his mug. “I asked around, collected what I could. A couple of customers had full clips—you can hear every word. I looked it up later, saw California doesn’t mess around when it comes to bullying laws if there’s proof. So I sent it all in with my report. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Grant gave the smallest nod, barely visible. “You did exactly what you should have.”

He caught the shift in her face then—the way her jaw clenched, a twitch near her temple. There was a flash of protectiveness in her expression that reminded him of a lioness, and he knew instinctively it wasn’t something you wanted turned on you.

She drew in a breath, eyes down for a second before meeting his again. Her tone softened, less official now. “That footage you gathered,” she said quietly, “it landed on my desk first.”

Evan blinked. “You were the one who saw it?”

She nodded once. “I recognized them immediately. A couple of those girls go to my daughter’s school. One of them sat in her biology class. Laila. Sharp kid, mean streak a mile wide.”

Evan’s chest tightened, he didn’t like where this was headed.

“May—my daughter,” Grant went on, “was almost next. Actually, not almost. She was their target. They’d already started on her. Little things at first—messages, shutting her out, anonymous posts dragging her name. I’ve seen this before. It builds slow, then it breaks a girl down.”

Her mouth pressed into a hard line. “They pick one every year. Then they tear her apart until she’s on the edge. When they’re done, they move on like it’s a routine. A game.”

Evan stared at her. “How long has this been going on?”

“Years,” she said. Her voice didn’t rise, but it carried weight. “Four at least, maybe more. Parents tried filing charges, but Laila’s folks shut it all down. They’re lawyers—good ones. Know every loophole, have friends in the LAPD, in the courts. They spin it into hearsay, call it teenage drama, and it all disappears.”

Evan’s grip tightened on his mug. “That’s—”

“Sick,” she cut in. “I know.”

She leaned back, looking tired more than anything. “When I realized it was May this time… I wanted to lose it. She never told me. Not a word. I only figured it out when I saw the comments on her class’s group page. Even then, she tried to laugh it off.”

Grant pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling sharply. “I scolded her. Hard. Not because I was angry, but because I was scared out of my mind. I’m a sergeant in the LAPD and my own kid didn’t feel like she could come to me.”

Evan stayed quiet. Sometimes one did not need to speak but listen, and this was one of them.

“But we got to her in time,” Athena said, her voice easing a little. “She’s seeing a therapist now.” She looked at Evan again, tired but grateful in a way that stopped him short. “Those videos you sent… they gave us what we never had before. Not texts that disappear. Not stories whispered and dismissed. Not bruises explained away as volleyball injuries. Actual proof. The way they laughed, the things they said—that’s intent. That’s not simply bullying—it’s malicious, targeted, and criminal.”

Evan’s throat tightened.

“I didn’t even know who they were talking about,” he admitted. “I just knew it felt wrong.”

“You were right,” Athena told him. “And you helped more people than you realize.”

She stood then, one hand brushing the back of the chair like she needed the contact before she let go. “They pulled me off the case, of course. Conflict of interest. Department didn’t want it to look like I was out for blood. Fair enough. Another station picked it up.”

Evan shook his head. “I still can’t believe all of this. That it went that far. That they got away with it for so long.”

Her reaction wasn’t surprise—she’d probably seen that look of disbelief on parents, in courtrooms, even in the mirror—but there was something else under it this time. A kind of quiet satisfaction.

“They’re not getting away with it anymore,” she said. “The officers who covered for them? Gone. Badges revoked.”

Evan blinked. “Seriously?”

“Internal Affairs didn’t waste time once those videos surfaced. And Laila’s parents—they both lost their licenses to practice law. They couldn’t prove they knew everything, but we did prove they used their positions to shield them, and that was enough.”

Evan exhaled, shoulders sinking. “And the girls?”

“Juvie,” Athena said. “All of them got full sentences. The court ruled it was premeditated harassment with criminal intent. And because of the digital trail—and your videos—their records won’t be sealed.”

His mouth fell open a little. “So… people will know.”

“They’ll have to live with it, the way their victims do,” Athena said.

Evan leaned back slowly, a weight lifting with every breath. He wasn’t someone who held onto anger. He’d spent too long learning how to let go, how to keep from burning himself out on things he couldn’t change. But even he had to admit it felt good to know this wasn’t disappearing into silence. Someone had finally said enough.

Athena studied him for a moment longer before stepping toward the door, her posture softening as she went. “I came here mostly to thank you,” she said, her voice quieter now. “What you did—it saved my daughter’s life.”

Evan looked down for a second, uncomfortable with the gratitude. “I didn’t do anything special. I just… did what anyone should.”

She smiled, small and almost sad. “There aren’t many people like that.” She held his gaze. “Thank you for being one, Buckaroo.”

The nickname caught him off guard, he laughed embarrassedly. “Did you just call me Buckaroo?”

Athena’s smirk was faint but there. “You run a bakery called The Buckery, Evan. Don’t look so surprised.”

And then she was gone.

For a long moment, he stayed put, letting the smell of cinnamon rolls drift in from the kitchen. The world outside carried on—Kate’s laugh echoing through the back, a timer buzzing faintly, the espresso machine starting up again.

He picked up his coffee—cold now, but still sweet—and headed into the kitchen. Chocolate Week wasn’t going to prep itself.

The weeks that followed settled into something new. It started small, with a dinner invitation. Athena stopped by after a shift, leaned against the counter while Evan boxed up strawberry tarts, and casually asked if he had plans that Sunday.

“I make a mean roast,” Athena had said, straight-faced, like she’d been waiting for the right moment to spring it on him.

He’d agreed, figuring it was a one-off.

But one dinner turned into another, and then another, until Sundays weren’t invitations anymore—they were just where he ended up.

He got to know the house quicker than he expected. Which drawer held the forks. How the back-left burner only lit if you gave it a little shake. Where Athena stashed her wine—top cabinet, behind the pasta boxes, like she thought nobody would ever look there.

It wasn’t only the food that kept him coming back.

Michael was the first real connection. Athena’s husband—almost ex—quietly sharp, smart, the kind of dry humor you could miss if you weren’t paying attention. Evan caught it right away. They eased into it—books first, then music. One night, while they were cleaning up, Michael lingered by the sink and said, “It’s easier, you know. Talking to someone who gets it.”

Evan had glanced up. “Gets what?”

Michael’s eyes flicked over, warm but pointed. “Not being straight, son.”

Evan let the silence stretch for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. I get it.”

That was it—they were friends after that.

Harry was different. The youngest, quick with a joke, quicker with a wall. Too sharp for his age, like every word was a shield. He bristled at Evan being there, as if letting him in might tip something fragile over.

Then one evening, while Athena and Michael cleaned up and May disappeared to her room with homework, Harry hovered by the table where Evan was sitting and just dropped the question with no warning. “Why are Mom and Dad getting divorced?”

Evan didn’t answer right away. He thought it through, careful with his words. “Because your mom loves you. And she knows staying in something broken just hurts everyone more.”

Harry stayed quiet for a long beat, then gave a small shrug, like maybe that was the first thing that actually made sense. After that, his sarcasm lost some of its bite.

Cooking with Athena turned into its own kind of ritual. She was fierce in the kitchen, coaching more than cooking, but Evan didn’t mind. She cared about the craft, and he understood that. One Sunday, she handed him a stained index card folded in half, the handwriting faded from years of use.

“My mom’s banana bread pudding,” she said. “Don’t lose it. And if you ever change the recipe, I’ll know.”

The next morning, The Buckery quietly retired the New York cheesecake. No farewell post, no announcement. Banana bread pudding slid into its spot like it had always been there.

But it was May he grew closest to.

She was still a teenager, still patching herself back together. She’d asked him for a job before her mom even knew, and Evan had said yes without thinking twice.

She came in three afternoons a week, reorganizing the display case, jotting down custom orders, winning over older customers with neat handwriting and an uncanny memory for names. She had a steady hand with piping bags, picked things up faster than anyone he’d trained, and didn’t get overwhelmed when the place got busy.

Watching her, he couldn’t help seeing himself at that age—smart, quiet, carrying more than she should, still figuring out how to stand up straight under it.

The next Sunday was just the four of them—Athena, May, Harry, and Evan. Michael had texted earlier, Out on a date. Wish me luck. May had cheered, Harry gave a small nod, but Evan had noticed the way Athena’s shoulders tightened.

Dinner itself was solid: steaks grilled just right to impress Athena, potato salad loaded with mustard the way Harry liked it, and for dessert, Evan had brought the last of The Buckery’s Chocolate Week box—baked fresh that morning, just for them.

“Rocher croissant for me,” May said the second the box hit the table, pulling it apart like it was too important to rush.

Athena went straight for the Hershey’s turnover, chocolate melting into the folds. Harry grabbed the Reese’s cupcake with zero hesitation, and Evan stuck with the Snickers tart.

They ate outside, the string lights overhead humming faintly, laughter spilling out between bites as they argued over which dessert deserved the crown. Harry even tried to sneak a trade from Athena’s plate, but one long mom-look had him retreating with his hands up.

When they were done, May snatched the car keys, brushing against Evan’s arm on her way past. “I’ve got Harry,” she said, halfway out the door already. “He’s got a sleepover, and I’m catching a movie with Maggie and Dani.”

Athena didn’t fight it. Just tossed her a “Drive safe,” then the door shut and the car engine fading down the street until it was quiet again.

Which left the two of them on the patio, glasses catching the glow of the lights overhead. Evan poured more sangria, the mix he’d put together earlier—bright citrus, a little sweet, berries floating against the rim, a kick of peach brandy.

Athena took a sip, let out a long breath, and for the first time that night her shoulders dropped. She rolled the glass in her hand, watching the sky. “Divorce as a Black woman feels like failure,” she said suddenly. “Like you’re playing into every damn stereotype. Angry. Unlovable. Too strong. Too much.”

Another sip, then a laugh, short and sharp. “I’m a Sergeant. I raised two kids. I’ve got more commendations than half the men I work with. But what people will remember is that I am a divorcée.”

Evan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That’s not what I remember. Or May. Or Harry. Or Michael, even.” He waited until she glanced at him, then went on. “You didn’t fail. You just stopped pretending something worked when it didn’t. And because you did, Michael gets to be himself. May’s finding her voice. Harry—okay, Harry’s still working it out, but you’re giving him the space to figure it out without drowning in the middle of it.”

She didn’t answer, but she was listening.

“And you,” he said, quieter now, “you get to find someone who doesn’t just put up with your strength but actually sees it for what it is. Someone who meets you eye to eye.”

Her gaze cut back to him, sharp at first, but softer than it had been all night. “Buckaroo,” she murmured, the nickname slipping out again, “you always know what to say.”

He laughed under his breath, clinking his glass lightly against hers. “You can thank years of therapy for that.”

“Thank you,” she said, simple but sure.

He smiled at her, easy and certain. “Always.”

Chapter Text

The rhythm of the afternoon flowed together in clinking mugs, a low thread of jazz from the speakers, and laughter that blended into the shuffle of shoes across old tile. Teatime at The Buckery had turned into its own neighborhood habit. A pause in the day.

Evan came out of the kitchen with two trays balanced carefully, sliding new lemon tarts into the case, setting down cookie dough croissants, topping off the row of chocolate chip cookies. May was already working at the register, hair in a loose braid, apron dusted with flour, smiling as she chatted with a couple at the counter.

Behind the espresso machine, Joshua and John moved like they’d rehearsed it—milk steaming, cinnamon sprinkled with a flourish. Jennifer drifted from table to table with a dishcloth tucked in her hand, easy conversation flowing like she’d known every customer for years.

Evan straightened the trays and caught pieces of conversation drifting through.

“—the cupcakes from Pride last year, with the glitter—”
“—we flew in from Arizona for this, told you the cookie dough croissant would ruin you—”
“—the espresso mousse one? Unreal. Like a latte turned into dessert—”

He chuckled, pride humming in his chest.

At the bar by the window, his regulars held their usual spots. Ms. Danvers with her lavender tea and a book she never cracked open. Khalil half-asleep over his laptop. Ron loudly ranking the cookies again like it was an Olympic sport.

Evan leaned in. “Everything good over here?”

“Chocolate chip was better last week,” Ron muttered without looking up.

Evan didn’t miss a beat. “Duly noted. I’ll pass it on to the cookie committee.”

Ms. Danvers smiled into her cup. “You spoil us too much, Evan. You know that, don’t you?”

He gave her a mock bow. “Only for my favorites.”

He was halfway to the kitchen to check the next batch of croissants when the bell over the door chimed. He didn’t think much of it at first, just another crowded hour, but May’s voice rose brighter than usual, and he caught the flicker of something in her grin that made him glance up.

And then—oh.

Standing at the counter was an imposing firefighter. And next to her—

Oh no.

The man looked like he’d stepped straight out of an ad campaign. Evan had to blink to make sure he hadn’t conjured him up by accident.

He was built lean, all sharp lines and broad shoulders, with neatly cropped blond hair and eyes so impossibly blue they looked like they belonged on a postcard. And that jaw—God help him—sharp enough to cut pie crust.

Evan blinked, then blinked again, and found himself already moving toward May, who was all but glowing as she said, “This is Evan—our boss-slash-genius baker. Evan, this is Hen. She’s best friends with my mom and works as a kickass paramedic for the 118.”

Hen’s smile was warm. Evan shook her hand quickly, managing a polite, “Nice to meet you.”

May turned to the blond, her grin smug enough to make Evan suspicious. “And this is Tommy. Used to be with the 118, now he’s at the Harbor 127. He’s a helicopter pilot.”

Evan’s mouth went dry. “You fly helicopters?”

Tommy nodded, casual, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Rescue ops, mostly.”

Evan’s brain betrayed him before he could stop it. “Do you take individual flyers?”

Evan.
Pull it together.
This is your bakery. Customers are watching. The cookies are judging.

Tommy smirked and Evan felt his knees wobble. “I could take you for a spin.”

Heat crawled up Evan’s neck before he could stop it. He cleared his throat, tried to look busy by straightening the cake display. “That would be… informative.”

Hen snorted, amused. She glanced between them like she’d just walked into the best comedy routine of her week. “I’ll take one of those lemon tarts,” she said, nodding toward the case. “And an Earl Grey.”

Tommy scanned the options, though his eyes kept flicking back to Evan in a way that made his palms itch. “I’ll have a matcha latte. And one of those cinnamon rolls. They as good as they look?”

Evan found his voice. “Better. They’ve been banned in three towns.”

Tommy arched a brow. “You bake all this yourself?”

“With a team,” Evan said, giving May a nod as she rang them up. “But yeah, most of the recipes are mine.”

“Well,” Tommy said, stepping just close enough for Evan to notice, “if that roll’s half as good as your cheesecake, I’m in trouble.”

Evan managed a laugh. “We keep first responders on speed dial.”

Behind them, Joshua and John were already pulling mugs and steaming milk, smirks tugging at their faces. They’d seen the blush. They weren’t going to let him live it down.

May leaned closer once Tommy stepped aside to study the pastry case. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re staring.”

Evan didn’t even try to deny it. “I’m appreciating.”

“Uh-huh,” she teased. “His eyes? His jaw? Or those pants that were definitely tailored?”

“May,” Evan hissed, scandalized but still watching. “He’s a customer.”

She raised her hands like she was innocent. “And a pilot. If you don’t flirt, I will.”

“Rude.”

Tommy’s laugh carried across the café as he nudged Hen toward a window table. She unzipped her jacket, casual and at home, while Tommy sat across from her and, just for a second, glanced back at the counter.

Evan pretended to reorganize lemon tarts. Totally normal behavior. Nothing to see here. Just a man, in charge of a bakery, lining up pastries by color order like his life depended on it.

“Evan,” May said, nudging him with her elbow.

“What?”

“You’re blushing again.”

“Go wipe table seven.”

She laughed the whole way to the dish bin.

Evan forced himself into his usual rounds—sugar caddies, wobbling tables, the works—but his path somehow curved toward their table anyway. Idiot.

Hen caught him first, her smile easy, like she was used to holding a room. “Hey, baker boy. Got a second?”

Evan chuckled, closing the distance. “I’ve been called worse.” He glanced at Tommy too, catching that flicker again. “How’s everything treating you?”

Hen gave a low hum, sipping her tea. “That lemon tart might be the best thing I’ve had this year—and I’ve had Bobby’s lasagna. That’s saying something.”

Evan grinned. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

“I’m bringing the wife and kid next time,” Hen added. “Karen loves sweets, and Denny just loves anywhere that smells like sugar and sells cookies the size of his head.”

“That,” Evan said, “we can definitely deliver.”

He turned to Tommy, who was already smirking. “That matcha was dangerously good,” Tommy said. “And the cinnamon roll? I thought I’d take a few bites. Next thing I knew, it was gone.”

Evan laughed under his breath. “Side effect of a good roll.”

Hen leaned forward, elbows on the table, mischief sparking. “So. Do you do custom cakes?”

Evan perked up. “Of course.”

“Even weird ones?” she asked.

“The weirder the better.”

“Perfect,” Hen said, folding her arms. “Because I need you to sculpt a cake shaped like my best friend’s head. With rebar through the forehead.”

Evan blinked. His brain stalled. “Wait—what?”

“Chimney,” Hen said, like that explained everything. “Athena probably filled you in. Dumbass managed to crash his car and end up with rebar through his head. He’s back on shift in a couple weeks.”

Tommy’s smile thinned a little at the memory. “I flew him to the hospital. It wasn’t pretty.”

Evan’s eyes widened. “Wait—that story Athena told over margaritas? That was real? I thought she was hammered.”

Hen’s grin sharpened. “Oh, it happened. Chimney’s got a twisted sense of humor, so we’re throwing him a ‘you survived your own stupidity’ party.”

Evan tilted his head, considering. “Well, I’ve done baby butts and fake engagement rings in cake. A head with rebar isn’t that much of a leap.”

Hen laughed. “He’s gonna love it.”

Tommy glanced between them, still entertained. “You’re serious about this?”

Evan pulled a little black notebook from his apron and sat down like he’d been invited. “Completely.”

“Any thoughts on flavors?” Hen asked.

Evan tapped his pen against the page. “Red velvet sponge, raspberry compote in the middle. That way, when you cut it, it bleeds.”

Hen’s laugh rang out, delighted. “That’s disgusting. Perfect.”

Tommy shook his head, chuckling. “This is either genius or the setup to a true crime documentary.”

Evan smirked. “I live in the moral gray area of pastry.”

They all laughed, the kind of easy rhythm that didn’t need effort. Weird orders had always been Evan’s favorite—the ones with just as much love as chaos baked into them. He scribbled down notes—size, flavor, inscription (they settled on “Still Got Your Head in the Game?”)—and stood again. “Give me a couple of days. I’ll send you a sketch.”

Hen raised her teacup in salute. “You’re the best.”

Tommy leaned back, mouth curving slow. “Can’t wait to see your version of Chimney’s skull.”

Evan shot him a look, playful. “Careful. I might put your face on a cookie next.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Only if you autograph it.”

Evan turned before the blush gave him away, but not before catching May’s smirk from across the room. “Don’t,” he mouthed.

She grinned wider and gave him a thumbs-up.

Half an hour later, Hen stepped outside into the sun, phone in hand, leaning against the building as she scrolled. From where she stood, she could still glance through the window.

Because Tommy hadn’t followed her out.

Inside, Evan was busying himself with a table that didn’t need wiping. Tommy walked over, and Evan looked up just as that crooked smirk appeared again—confident, with just enough charm to leave Evan’s ears burning.

“You always this flustered around first responders?” Tommy asked, amusement tucked into his tone.

Evan startled, dropping the towel he wasn’t even using. “What? No—I mean, not always. Sometimes.”

Tommy tilted his head, enjoying this. “So just helicopter pilots, then?”

Evan opened his mouth, realized nothing useful was going to come out, and shut it again. His ears were definitely red now. “That’s… yeah, fair.”

Tommy leaned in slightly, not crowding him, but close enough to change the air between them. “Relax. I’m not trying to mess with you.”

“You’re doing great at it anyway,” Evan muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

That pulled a laugh out of Tommy. He was watching Evan closely, not unkindly, like he found the fluster charming. “I meant what I said,” he added. “The food, the drinks—it was all incredible. You’ve got something here.”

“Thanks,” Evan said, trying to sound normal again. “We work hard. It’s a team effort. I’m just the guy running around burning himself on trays.”

Tommy’s smile softened as he reached into his jacket, pulled out a small slip of paper. “I didn’t want to leave without doing this,” Tommy said, setting the paper on the counter. “That’s my number. In case you ever need an aerial pastry delivery.”

Evan blinked at the paper, then at him. “You offering to drop croissants from the sky?”

Tommy’s smirk deepened. “Only if you promise me a date.”

Evan picked it up, fingers not exactly steady. “I, uh… I’m free next Saturday?”

“Perfect,” Tommy said, pleased like that was the answer he’d been expecting. “You like Italian?”

“Yeah. Love Italian.”

“Good.” Tommy’s blue eyes darkening with desire. “I’ll text you the details.”

And just like that, he was turning for the door, jacket shifting as he pushed it open, stepping into the sunlight where Hen was already waiting. She shook her head at him with a knowing grin, like she’d seen this exact play before.

Evan stayed rooted to the spot, staring at the paper in his hand until his brain remembered how to breathe again. He turned—and realized every single person in the café had seen the whole thing.

Every. Single. One.

May was behind the register, grinning so hard she was practically vibrating. Jennifer leaned on her broom like she needed it to stay upright. Joshua and John froze mid-latte, steam wand hissing uselessly. Karina and Kate were peeking through the pass with piping bags in hand, smirks locked and loaded. Even Ron, king of cookie critiques, was watching from his corner with undisguised glee.

The blush hit hard and fast, his whole face burning like he’d been shoved into a brick oven. “Okay, no,” he said, throwing up his hands—still holding the number like evidence. “Everyone mind your business. Eat your pastries. Stop staring at me like I’m some prom queen who just got kissed under the bleachers.”

That only made the laughter louder.

May wiped a tear from her eye. “We’re proud of you, Buckaroo.”

From the kitchen, Karina called, “Our boy’s growing up!”

“Don’t make me write all of you up,” Evan shot back, failing completely at stern.

He was smiling too hard to pull it off anyway. He had flour on his apron, raspberry on his sleeve, and the number of a helicopter pilot burning a hole in his hand. Life was good.

By Saturday night, his apartment looked like a bomb had gone off in a clothing store. Shirts piled on the bed, draped across the chair, even hanging off the kitchenette. The normally tidy space was wrecked, and Evan was standing in the middle of it like a man defeated, throwing another button-up onto the growing heap.

The clock said thirty minutes until his date, but panic told him there wasn’t enough time in the world.

On his phone, propped up against a coffee mug, Luke was poolside in LA, sipping a beer like he was starring in a commercial for California relaxation. He was already half-drunk on Evan’s misery.

“I’m sorry,” Luke wheezed between laughs, “I really am trying to be supportive, but man—you look like you just lost a fight with your closet.”

Evan groaned and collapsed back on the bed, sending two shirts flying to the floor. “I did. It was a brutal battle. Casualties everywhere.”

Luke snorted into his beer, then pointed the bottle at the camera. “Relax. First off—you look good in everything. But especially in what you’re wearing right now.”

Evan glanced down. Black jeans that made his legs look longer. Midnight blue button-up, sleeves rolled, collar open. The leather jacket that fit him just right, worn in all the right places. He looked… fine. Better than fine. Hot, even.

Didn’t matter. His heart was still running a marathon in his chest.

Luke took another drink, settling deeper into his chair. “Come on, you’ve been a smooth talker since high school. You dated cheerleaders, teammates, half the college roster. What’s different now? You’re just in your head. Relax.”

“I don’t know, man,” Evan muttered, flopping an arm over his face. “It’s not the clothes. It’s me. I haven’t done the whole real date thing in a long time.”

Luke’s grin faded into something gentler. “So, you’re nervous?”

Evan groaned. “Yes. No. Kind of.”

Luke tilted his head, waiting him out.

Evan finally sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. “I haven’t actually dated since Avery. Not really. She took that internship in New York, we broke up, and I hit the road. Two and a half years of bakeries, night buses, weird Airbnbs, and a whole lot of not sticking around. Hookups, sure. A few flings. But nothing steady.”

Luke raised a brow. “Okay… and?”

Evan gave him a look, sheepish. “I think I forgot how to do this.”

Luke let the silence stretch, then softened. “Ev, listen. I personally witnessed you charm half the people in our dorm freshman year with a tray of peanut butter cookies and a charming smile. You’re not out of practice. You’re just… finally in a place where it matters.”

That made Evan pause.

Luke sat up, a little more serious now. “You built a home, man. You’ve got roots now. That bakery, your people, your ridiculous cheesecake section… You’ve finally stopped running. Of course, this feels different.” Evan swallowed, his chest tightening. “And hey,” Luke added with a small grin, “if this Tommy guy doesn’t treat you right? I’ll bring the Lakers. No one makes my boy blush and bails on him. You have backup.”

Evan laughed, startled but grateful. “Thanks, Cap.”

“Skip the smooth talk,” Luke said, lifting his beer. “Go be your awkward, golden-retriever self. That’s the guy everyone falls for anyway.”

Evan glanced at the mirror across the room. Flushed cheeks, hair a little messy, he looked nervous, sure. Out of his depth, definitely. But he also looked like someone who was ready to try. That had to count for something.

“Alright,” he said, exhaling. “Wish me luck.”

Luke grinned. “You don’t need it.”

Evan ended the call, slipped the phone into his pocket, and locked up behind him. The ride through Los Angeles was a blur of wind and neon lights, the hum of his nerves keeping pace with the engine.

It’s just dinner, he told himself. Not a final exam. Not a health inspection. Just dinner with an absurdly attractive man who flies helicopters. Totally fine.

Miceli’s came into view, all red-checkered tablecloths and neon glow, like a slice of the fifties that never left. Evan pulled up to the rack, killed the engine, and looked up—

Tommy was already there, leaning against the brick wall under the sign, dressed in dark jeans and a slate-gray shirt that made him look like he’d stepped straight out of a romcom.

When he spotted Evan, his whole face lit with a smile. “Hey, you made it.”

“Yeah,” Evan said, swinging off the bike and locking it. “Couldn’t miss carbs and charm.”

Tommy laughed and slipped a hand to Evan’s back like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the door. “We’ve got a table.”

Inside, the hostess led them toward the back. A little sign with Kinnard written in neat script marked their booth. Evan slid into his seat, nerves buzzing again despite himself.

And of course, Tommy noticed.

“You, okay?” Tommy asked, pouring water from the carafe the hostess had left on the table.

“Yeah,” Evan said, then hesitated. “I just haven’t done the whole date thing in a while. I might be a little rusty.”

Tommy smiled reassuringly. “You’re doing fine.”

Evan let out a breath, tension loosening a bit. “Okay, safe topic—how’d Chim like the cake?”

That pulled a laugh out of Tommy, warm and genuine. “The cake didn’t last an hour. Hen walked in with it, told everyone to wait until the toast, and Chim was already cutting into it before she even set it down.”

Evan laughed too, picturing it exactly that way.

“The 118 devoured it like a pack of wolves,” Tommy added, shaking his head. “Bobby, the captain, who is basically a chef, even said it was incredible. And he’s stingy with compliments.”

“Wait, really?” Evan asked, surprised.

Tommy nodded. “He was practically dissecting it while he chewed, trying to figure out how you did it.”

Evan ducked his head, embarrassed but pleased. “That’s… kind of an honor.”

“It was perfect,” Tommy said, his gaze steady. “Ridiculous and dark, but perfect. It nailed Chim’s whole vibe.”

Evan smiled, fiddling with the edge of his napkin. Some of the nerves slipped away with that.

Their waitress appeared, pen poised, and they placed their order without fuss—garlic bread to start, Chicken Marsala for Tommy, Shrimp Alfredo for Evan, and a bottle of Merlot. She whisked the menus away, leaving them tucked back into their corner booth, candlelight flickering against the wood-paneled walls.

“So,” Evan said, leaning back, “what did you do today? Off-duty stuff, I mean.”

“Mostly slept,” Tommy admitted. “Caught up on laundry. Read a few chapters of a terrible thriller I should probably give up on. My couch and I are in a pretty serious relationship when I’m not working.”

Evan chuckled. “That honestly sounds like heaven.”

“After a 24-hour shift? It is.”

Evan blinked. “Wait—you just got off a 24-hour shift?”

“Yeah. This morning.”

“Isn’t that… dangerously exhausting?”

Tommy shrugged. “You get used to it. Nap when you can, drink a lot of coffee, exercise to keep you awake. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

Evan shook his head. “I start complaining if I have to pull an extra prep shift at the bakery.”

Tommy grinned. “Yeah, but you’re surrounded by sugar and music. I’m pulling people out of canyons and dealing with hikers who think one water bottle is enough for a six-mile trail in a heatwave.”

Evan laughed. “Fair point.” Then, after a beat, “So you’ve always been into flying?”

Tommy’s expression softened. “I was a pilot in the Army right out of high school, flying medevac tours. When I got out, I still wanted to help people, so firefighting felt like the right path. A few years later, I transferred to Harbor to get back to flying.”

Evan’s brows lifted. “You’re a veteran?”

Tommy gave a small nod, almost offhand. “Yeah. Don’t usually bring it up unless someone asks.”

Evan stared at him for a second, then said quietly, “So you’re a firefighter, a pilot, and a veteran. That’s… not intimidating at all.”

Tommy smirked. “I also make a decent omelet.”

Evan grinned, cheeks warming. “Great. Just add that to the list.”

“You bake cakes that make grown men emotional and you’ve got fans flying in from out of state,” Tommy said easily. “I’d say we’re even.”

Evan wanted to argue, but instead he gave a sheepish shrug. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m not completely unimpressive.”

“There it is,” Tommy said, satisfied.

The waitress returned then with their wine, pouring with a practiced hand before slipping away again. Evan swirled the glass, letting the red catch the light before taking a sip. The food followed soon after—garlic bread still steaming, Chicken Marsala rich and fragrant, and Evan’s Shrimp Alfredo plated so neatly it looked like it belonged on the cover of a cookbook.

For a while, they let the conversation drift off, both of them focused on their food. The only sounds between them were the scrape of forks against plates, the occasional hum of approval, and Evan muffling a laugh when a shrimp nearly slid off his fork and into his lap.

It was Tommy who leaned back first, wiping his mouth with his napkin before Evan asked, casual as he could manage, “So what do you do when you’re not saving lives or dropping in from helicopters like some action hero?”

Tommy raised a brow. “Action hero?”

Evan grinned. “Come on, you literally fly into emergencies. That counts as dramatic.”

That pulled a laugh from Tommy. “Alright, fair. When I’m not working or glued to my couch? I’m into Muay Thai. Been doing it for years—keeps me in shape.”

Evan’s brows went up. “That’s unexpected.”

Tommy shrugged. “I like cars too, old rebuilds. And I follow boxing like it’s a religion. I fly out to Vegas a couple times a year to catch the big matches.”

“Yeah, see, I know nothing about boxing or Muay Thai,” Evan admitted, pointing his fork for emphasis. “And I drive a bike.”

Tommy tilted his head, smirk tugging at his mouth. “So what’s your thing then?”

“Basketball,” Evan said without hesitation, sitting up a little straighter.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Evan said, the grin coming easy now. “I was captain of my high school team, we won state twice. Got me a scholarship to Penn State.”

Tommy leaned in, interested. “You played at Penn?”

“Yep. My roommate was our power forward. He’s actually my best friend now.”

Tommy blinked, recognition hitting. “Hold on… the only guy from Penn who went pro recently is—Luke Basset?”

Evan laughed, pointing his fork like he’d caught him out. “That’s him.”

“No way.” Tommy leaned back, impressed. “You’re friends with Luke Basset? The guy who dropped that triple-double last month?”

Evan’s cheeks warmed, but the smile stayed. “Yeah, that’s Luke. He’s… he’s family at this point. Always there for me, and I’ve always got his back.”

Tommy gave a low whistle. “Damn. I thought I was the cool one here, but you’re casually pulling NBA best friends out of your pocket over pasta.”

Evan waved it off. “No, seriously. I’m not that interesting. I bake cookies and stress about cheesecake textures. Luke’s the one with the highlight reels.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes, amused. “Didn’t I already say your dessert reels have a fanbase? I’ve had coworkers send me your croissant videos. You’re absolutely a celebrity.”

Evan groaned, covering his face. “They’re just videos! Croissants photograph well.”

Tommy laughed, leaning an elbow on the table, watching him squirm. “You are adorable.”

Evan peeked out from behind his hands. “I’m not adorable.”

“You are,” Tommy said, grinning now.

Evan shook his head, cheeks still pink, trying not to think about how warm the words made him feel.

The waitress came back, collecting their plates with practiced ease. She set down fresh spoons and asked, “Any room for dessert?”

Evan lit up. “Do you have tiramisu?”

She nodded. “House-made and it’s big enough to share.”

Evan turned toward Tommy, eyes bright. “I love tiramisu.”

Tommy chuckled, folding his napkin. “We’ll take one.”

As she walked off, Evan leaned back, swirling what was left in his glass. Around them, the restaurant kept its low hum—laughter from a nearby table, faint clatter from the kitchen.

“So,” Tommy said, raising his own glass slightly, “you traveled after college?”

“Two and a half years,” Evan said. “I worked bakeries along the way. Took whatever gigs I could. Traded recipes for a couch sometimes. Picked up a mixology cert in Peru because apparently someone thought I should be making cocktail cupcakes.”

Tommy’s brow lifted. “You are good at cocktail cupcakes. One of my teammates once brought a box of your champagne ones to a party. I almost proposed to them.”

Evan tried not to look too pleased, but the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away. “Thanks.” He took a sip of wine before continuing. “I started on the East Coast—New York, Boston, Philly. Had a bagel phase that lasted way too long. Then I went South—Savannah, Charleston, New Orleans. New Orleans was wild. Beignets and jazz at two in the morning? Completely life-changing.”

Tommy’s mouth curved. “Let me guess. You ended up behind a bar at least once in New Orleans.”

Evan laughed. “More than once. I can still muddle mint in my sleep.”

“I bet you charmed half the French Quarter,” Tommy said, grinning into his glass.

Evan lifted a shoulder in mock modesty. “What can I say? I’m lovable.”

“And Peru?” Tommy asked, leaning in a little.

“Oh man,” Evan said, eyes bright. “Peru was incredible. Every cake I tried to make either imploded or turned into some weird cookie, but the people were amazing. Funny, honest, didn’t hold back. They told me my empanadas were ‘gringo decent.’”

Tommy chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s generous.”

“I know, right?” Evan smirked. “But the best part was learning to play with flavors I’d never even heard of before. Purple corn syrup, for example. Who knew that was a thing?”

They paused to sip their wine. A waiter walked past, the draft making the candle on their table flicker. The light caught the curve of Evan’s jaw and the easy tilt of his smile.

Tommy watched him for a beat, quiet. “You light up when you talk about baking.” He said it like it was just fact, not praise.

Evan blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah… I guess I do.”

“It’s a good thing,” Tommy added. “Not everyone gets to be that sure about what they love.”

Evan glanced down into his glass, his cheeks a touch warmer now. “Took a while to figure out.”

Before the air could get too heavy, the waitress returned with dessert—a square of tiramisu dusted with cocoa, set down between them with two spoons. She gave a knowing little smile and slipped away without a word.

Evan grabbed his spoon first, sliding the plate toward the middle. “Do not judge me if I eat more than half.”

Tommy mirrored him with a grin. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Mmm,” Evan hummed after the first bite. “Creamy, light. The mascarpone’s solid. Coffee’s there but not overwhelming. They held back just enough.”

Tommy raised a brow, amused. “You always review dessert like that?”

Evan shrugged, already going in for more. “Comes with the job. You don’t drop out of helicopters without mentally scoring every landing pad.”

Tommy chuckled, taking his own bite before setting his spoon down. “Alright, I’ll trade you. One professional opinion for a story.”

Evan leaned in a little. “Deal.”

Tommy scooped another piece of tiramisu, gesturing with his spoon. “Couple weeks ago, we had a hiker stuck halfway up a ridge in Topanga. Sprained ankle, panicking because her dog was still up the trail.”

Evan winced. “Oh no.”

“So, I fly in, routine pickup. But just as we’re pulling her up, the dog—Border collie, smart as hell—comes tearing down the slope at full speed. Doesn’t even slip. Jumps straight into the harness with her.”

Evan blinked. “Wait—with her?”

Tommy nodded, laughing. “Full-on tandem lift. She’s screaming, he’s having the best day of his life. I’ve got a video somewhere, it was pure chaos.”

Evan clapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh with a mouthful of dessert. “That is the most L.A. rescue I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re not wrong.”

The conversation kept rolling—rescue stories, baking fails, mutual complaints about early alarms. Evan didn’t notice how much closer he was leaning until his arm brushed the edge of the table. He felt lighter somehow, less guarded, his usual wall of self-deprecating jokes softened into something easier. With Tommy, it was just… simple.

Evan scooped up the last spoonful of tiramisu, hesitating with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Last bite. You want it?”

Tommy gave him a look that was more playful than smug. “You’re the baker. I trust you to keep the dessert gods happy.”

Evan ate it in one dramatic bite, chewing with exaggerated reverence. “It’s what they would’ve wanted.”

Tommy’s laugh softened into something warmer. The check arrived in its little leather folio, and before Evan could reach for it, Tommy was sliding his card inside. “Nope. My invite, my treat.”

Evan opened his mouth, thought about protesting, and let it go. “Fine. But next time’s mine.”

Tommy paused long enough to meet his eyes. “So there’ll be a next time?”

Color rose on Evan’s cheeks, but he nodded. “Yeah. I hope so.”

Outside, the air was chilly, but he barely noticed it with Tommy walking close beside him, their steps falling in easy rhythm. They stopped by Evan’s bike, palm trees shifting in the night breeze overhead.

Evan’s pulse thudded, his throat dry, but he still tilted his head up. “Hey,” he said quietly. “If you wanted to come by my place… we could have a drink. Or just talk. Or not talk.”

Something flickered in Tommy’s eyes—not hesitation, more like consideration. He stepped closer, enough for Evan to feel the warmth radiating off him.

“I appreciate that,” Tommy said gently. “But I don’t want to rush this.”

Evan blinked, caught off guard. “Rush?”

Tommy’s smile was small but sure. “I like you, Evan. I want to see where this goes, but I’d rather take it slow than rush into something that burns out too soon.”

Evan’s chest tightened, hopeful and almost dizzy with it. He exhaled slowly and nodded. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I want that too.”

Tommy didn’t say anything right away. He just reached up, fingers brushing Evan’s jaw like he was asking permission. Evan leaned into the touch without thinking, and then Tommy kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried. Just the press of lips, warm breath shared, a tilt of heads that felt instinctive. Evan’s hands found the fabric of Tommy’s jacket, curling there as he stepped in closer. When they parted, Evan opened his eyes to the faintest smile curving Tommy’s mouth.

“Goodnight, Evan,” Tommy said.

Evan swallowed, heart pounding. “Goodnight.”

Tommy stepped back, calm and unhurried, before heading to his truck down the street. Evan stayed put, watching until the taillights disappeared, his lips tingling, his hands still warm from where they’d clutched at Tommy’s jacket. He let out a shaky laugh, unlocked his bike, and rode home grinning like a fool.

The grin slipped when he opened his apartment door.

Clothes. Everywhere. Jeans on the couch, shirts in a pile on the bed, a lone sock perched on top of the toaster. The place looked like it had lost a fight with a tornado. Evan stood in the doorway, staring at the chaos he’d left behind, and let out a long, slow breath.

Of course. Perfect first date kiss, and this was what he came home to.

“Okay,” Evan muttered as he dropped his keys into the bowl by the door. “So… yeah. Probably a good thing he didn’t come up.”

He kicked off his boots, stepped over what was either a dress shoe or an unidentified weapon of chaos, and face-planted onto the bed—barely missing a belt buckle. After a few muffled screams into the pillow (mandatory), he rolled over, grabbed his phone, and hit Luke’s contact without a second thought.

It was late, but Luke picked up almost instantly, smug in tone before he even said hello. “Soooo?”

Evan groaned. “You didn’t even let me say hi.”

Luke chuckled. “I saw the time. Either you got lucky, or you’re calling because you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” Evan admitted, grinning despite himself. “But it was still… really good.”

Luke’s voice softened. “Alright. Spill.”

Evan sat up, crossed his legs at the edge of the bed, and launched into it. He told Luke everything—about the food, the stories, the tiramisu, the way Tommy had looked at him when the candlelight caught just right. And finally, the kiss.

“Oh my God,” Evan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Luke, it was perfect. Like movie-scene perfect. But not cheesy, just… I don’t know. My heart was about to explode and melt at the same time.”

Luke let out a long whistle. “Damn. Sounds like you’re in trouble.”

“I am,” Evan admitted, falling back on the mattress again. Luke cracked up, but Evan didn’t care. He was too happy. “And he said,” Evan added, quieter now, “that he didn’t want to rush things. He wants to build something real.”

For once, Luke went quiet. “Wow. Okay. That’s a solid green flag.”

“Right?” Evan whispered at the ceiling. “Like, who says that on a first date?”

“Someone who means it,” Luke said. “And someone who probably knows what it feels like when people don’t.”

Evan let out a breath. “So now what?”

“Now?” Luke laughed. “You clean up that crime scene of an apartment. You get some sleep. And when he texts—which he will—you do what you always do.”

“Which is?”

“Be yourself. You’re a mess,” Luke said, affection in every word, “but you’re a lovable one.”

Evan smiled, his eyes drifting shut. “Thanks, man.”

“Anytime, Buckaroo.”

Evan groaned. “Why are you calling me that now?”

“Because if I don’t, your mamma Athena will hunt me down.”

With that, Luke hung up, and Evan set the phone on the nightstand, smiling to himself.

Yeah.
He’d made the right call.
Los Angeles was home.

Chapter Text

Tommy came into the station laughing, already hunched over like he was bracing for impact, one arm wrapped tight around the Tupperware pressed to his side like it was the game ball in overtime.

“Back off, vultures,” he called, sidestepping Steve’s grab and giving Jeremy a light shove with his hip. “Nobody’s getting any if you keep trying to mug me at the door.”

“That’s not Tupperware,” Steve said, narrowing his eyes like it deserved reverence. “That’s a treasure chest.”

Tommy grinned. “That’s what happens when you date a baker. You carry pastry like it’s contraband and get ambushed before you even clock in.”

Not that he minded. Not even close. He loved the whole thing—the early mornings with bad coffee while Evan whisked something perfect, the “trial” batches where Evan second-guessed cinnamon levels like it was life or death, the way Evan’s face softened when he was focused, pink from the oven, apron crooked.

He loved Evan.

More than he’d ever loved anyone. It hadn’t been one of those lightning-strike moments people liked to talk about. Just small things stacking up over time—the steady pull of laughter shared across late nights, the comfort of knowing someone else would pick up the slack when he couldn’t, the way the world seemed easier when they were in the same room. It crept in so quietly he didn’t even notice it happening until one day he looked around and realized everything felt different.

A few months back, standing barefoot in the bathroom while Evan brushed his teeth and mumbled about reorganizing the spice rack, Tommy had asked him to move in. There was no big speech. Just, “You should live here.” And Evan had spat, rinsed, and said, “Okay.”

Simple.

Like it was always supposed to happen.

Back in the present, Jeremy made a dramatic dive for the container. Tommy swatted him away with one long arm. “Animals,” he muttered, laughing. “Relax. Evan made plenty. You don’t have to eat each other.”

That only earned louder groans and protests. Someone—not even Steve this time—whined, “I skipped breakfast for this!”

Tommy shook his head, pushed through the locker room, and changed quickly. Shirt, uniform, a quick glance for stains out of pure habit. The place smelled like salt air and antiseptic; ocean mixed with the sterile edge of emergency work.

By the time he walked into the kitchen, the crew was circling the table, pretending to drink coffee or chat about helicopter repairs, but their eyes were glued to the Tupperware like it might vanish.

Tommy didn’t hurry. He set it down with a slow flourish, popped the lid, and stepped back.

Chaos.

Within seconds, whoopie pies were gone, the room filled with muffled swears and groans that didn’t sound entirely human. The Harbor’s finest reduced to sugar-drunk kids.

“Holy—Tommy, what the hell is in this?” Jake managed, chocolate at the corner of his mouth. “I think I saw God.”

“Brown butter, espresso powder, and love,” Tommy said with a straight face.

“Tell your man he’s got a gift,” Jeremy added, already reaching for a second. “If you ever screw it up with him, I’m switching sides.”

One of the probies—Sam, maybe—shook his head. “Seriously, man. You’re lucky.”

Tommy just smiled, dopey in a way that earned him a balled-up napkin to the chest. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

He tucked the empty Tupperware away above the microwave, where it would sit until next Sunday’s delivery. A year ago, his mornings had been takeout containers and quiet solitude. Now he had pastry boxes, Evan’s apron tossed across the couch, and texts that read Don’t let Steve take three again.

Lucy was at the counter, topping off another carafe of coffee with her usual precision. Steve, already sugared up, leaned back on his stool and piped up around a mouthful of whoopie pie.

“So, what’s new on The Buckery menu?” Steve asked, wiping cream off his chin with his sleeve because it seems that napkins didn’t exist.

Before Tommy could answer, Lucy smacked the back of Steve’s head, light enough not to hurt but enough to remind him to behave. “Let the man breathe,” she muttered, shoving a mug of coffee into Tommy’s hand.

Tommy shot her a grateful smile over the rim. “Thanks.”

But the room had already shifted, everyone watching him with that familiar, expectant quiet. Nobody was even pretending to act normal anymore. They were waiting—like the whoopie pies had been the starter and now they wanted the real treat.

He sighed, amused. “He’s thinking about opening a second location,” Tommy said finally. “The Buckery’s slammed, and apparently half of L.A. thinks nothing of driving across town for a croissant. It’s flattering, but also a little ridiculous.”

The response was immediate.

Cheering, a couple of fist bumps, even the probie in the corner who hadn’t said a word all morning shouted, “Hell yeah!” Jake clapped Tommy on the shoulder like he’d baked the pastries himself. Steve raised his mug like a toast. “May the buns rise again!”

Tommy shook his head, letting them have their fun. He’d gotten used to the crew treating Evan’s wins like his own. Maybe they were, in a way. Not because Tommy had a hand in the baking—he’d nearly set their kitchen on fire just trying to melt butter—but because being with Evan meant sharing the orbit of his ambition. Sometimes that just meant holding Tupperware, sometimes it meant sitting back and watching him shine.

“He’s probably in there right now,” Jeremy said, both elbows on the table like he was already picturing it. “Cooking up more of those masterpieces. Guy’s a genius.”

Tommy’s smile slipped. “He’s not,” he said quietly. “He’s in Pennsylvania.”

That shut the room up fast.

Lucy, halfway to the sink, froze. “What happened?”

Tommy lifted a shoulder, not dramatic, just honest. “We don’t really know yet. He got a call a couple nights ago. Jonah—his high school friend—and Mrs. Jones, who was basically family, told him he needed to come back right away, without giving any details.”

The silence felt heavier this time. Even Steve, who could joke through just about anything, set his mug down and frowned. “Hope it’s nothing bad,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Tommy said, nodding slowly. He took a sip of coffee that suddenly tasted too bitter. The hum of the fridge filled the space, as the radio crackled faintly out in the hall. “He’ll call once he knows more.”

Lucy’s hand brushed his arm as she passed. “Keep us posted, okay?”

Tommy gave her a tired half-smile. “I will.”

The heaviness lingered for a moment longer, until Jeremy piped up with, “So where’s this second Buckery going to be? Because if it’s not in Westwood, I’m protesting.”

Jake immediately argued for Silver Lake, and the room loosened again, the tension ebbing as they fell back into their usual noise.

Tommy let the debate wash over him. His mind had already drifted—back to Hershey, back to the things Evan had told him about his parents, the way that town carried more bad memories than good ones for him.

He was still caught up in the worry when a laugh cut through the chatter. The kind of awkward, half-mean laugh people use when they want to lighten the mood with gossip.

Tommy caught the tail end of it.

“I’m just saying,” Sam mumbled around his last sip of coffee, “I’m glad I landed at Harbor. Imagine getting stuck at the 118? That place is cursed.”

Tommy blinked, straightening in his chair. “What?”

Jake snorted. “He’s not wrong.”

A few heads nodded, and suddenly the chatter in the kitchen shifted. Stories started spilling out, voices overlapping each other.

“Han’s accident was insane,” Jeremy said, already swept up in the chatter. “Rebar through the skull? And he caused the crash himself with road rage.”

“Right?” Steve cut in, dropping his voice like it was some secret. “Wild that nobody else got hurt. But seriously—what firefighter loses it behind the wheel like that? We see wrecks every day, you’d think a paramedic would be more careful. And the department didn’t even investigate? Just looked the other way?”

“Captain Nash covered it up,” someone said from the end of the table. “And that’s the guy running the station. Doesn’t exactly scream solid leadership.”

Tommy’s grip tightened around his mug, but he stayed quiet.

It went downhill from there.

“I heard about the other paramedic,” Sam jumped back in. “The Black woman—something Wildon?”

“Wilson,” Jake corrected immediately, way too eager. “Henrietta Wilson. My buddy from 23 told me the whole thing.”

Tommy’s mouth pressed into a hard line.

“Cheated on her wife,” Jake went on, oblivious—or maybe just not caring. “With the kid’s biological mom. That’s cold. And the ex had just gotten out of prison on drug charges.”

Steve gave a low whistle. “Jesus.”

“Yeah, and get this,” Jake added, clearly enjoying himself. “The ex—Eva—OD’d in some motel. My buddy was there that night. He told me they tried, but they couldn’t save her. By the time the cops got involved, they’d already pulled the security footage and, sure enough, there was Wilson, walking out like nothing had happened. They can’t pin it on her, not officially, but come on—everyone who’s seen it says the same thing. It doesn’t look good, not for her, not for the department.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. That heavy pause where gossip stopped being entertaining and started feeling ugly. But no one pulled the plug either.

Tommy sat there, jaw locked, his coffee going cold in his hand. He stared at the water ring under his mug, the kitchen closing in around him. A few minutes ago it had felt warm and familiar, but now it was stifling, too loud, like there wasn’t enough air.

He knew the 118. Trained with them, hauled bodies beside them, shared lunch on long calls. Hearing his own crew drag them through the dirt didn’t sit right. Still, it wasn’t like they were pulling this out of nowhere either.

Somehow, that made it worse.

The conversation continued, slipping into that messy place between gossip and judgment, everyone too wrapped up to notice how far past the line they’d gone.

“Even their captain’s a mess,” someone muttered.

“Captain Nash?” Jake asked, pretending he didn’t already know. “Guy almost got fired, right? Lied about why he transferred to the LAFD.”

“There’s no shame in being a recovering alcoholic,” another voice chimed in. “But lying about it on your evals?”

“That’s the problem,” Steve said, nodding like he was making a point. “The lying, what else do you cover up if you’re running a station? He already hid Han’s crash.”

Jeremy leaned in, lowering his voice as if that made it respectable. “Only reason he kept his badge was the serial bomber case. He caught the guy.”

Jake scoffed. “Yeah, after his probie got crushed under a truck.”

A pause.

“Diaz, right?” someone asked quietly.

“Rough luck,” Jeremy murmured. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Guy at 136 told me Diaz got mixed up in some underground fight club.”

“What?” someone laughed, half-startled. “Like, an actual fight club?”

“Yeah, but not the movie kind,” Jeremy said. “Apparently, he almost killed a guy. Word is he’s been carrying all this anger around, and I mean, think about it—he came back from the war, lost his wife, nearly lost his leg, all in the same year. People say it built up and built up until one day he just snapped. Didn’t matter who was standing in front of him, he was gonna take it out on somebody.”

“And instead of getting help,” Steve added, leaning back like he was handing down a verdict, “he sneaks out at night and beats people up for cash?”

“The guy lived,” Jeremy said quickly, like that softened the edges. “He’ll recover, but Diaz wasn’t arrested or fired—Nash had pulled strings again.”

Sam let out a low whistle. “How many times is this guy gonna cover for his people?”

Jeremy just shrugged. “I heard Diaz lost custody of his son, though. Kid’s back in El Paso with the grandparents.”

Lucy turned her head at that, brows knitting as her eyes slid toward Tommy. It wasn’t a sharp look, not nosy or probing, just that quiet way she had of checking in without words. She knew—maybe not all of it, but enough to understand he still carried ties to the 118.

Or had carried them.

Tommy gave her a faint smile, the kind you put on to say I’m good, even if you weren’t sure you believed it yourself. She let it go after a moment, turning back to refill her coffee.

He appreciated that about her. She never pressed. But her look had cracked something open, and once it cracked, the rest started spilling in.

He hadn’t set out to grow distant from the 118. Not at first. It just… happened. Quiet and gradual, like waking up one day and realizing you’d been carrying something heavy for so long you’d forgotten it was there—until suddenly, it wasn’t. At Harbor, things felt different. Easier. Lighter. He laughed more, slept better.

The weight he’d carried with the 118 only became clear once he wasn’t carrying it anymore.

It hadn’t all been Gerard, though Gerard was still the kind of scar he picked over in therapy week after week, trying to make sense of something that never would.

And Bobby—Bobby hadn’t been the sanctuary he wanted him to be.

For a long time, he believed the 118 were close, the kind of close that made people talk about their crew like family. But looking back, he started to see it wasn’t all that simple. Being close didn’t always mean it was good. Sometimes it meant everyone was stuck in the same patterns, carrying the same weight, and calling it loyalty because it was easier than naming the cracks.

The change didn’t happen in one moment. It built slowly, little things adding up. A lot of it came from Evan—how easy he was to have around, how he’d pitch in without being asked, how he’d remember small details like who always ate extra muffins. He didn’t try to force his way in, but he kept showing up, steady and dependable.

And people responded. Even the ones who kept their distance at first started asking if Evan would be at trivia night or texting him for recipes. Bit by bit, Tommy realized the 217 wasn’t just a station anymore. It was his circle. They gave each other space when they needed it, showed up for holidays, let the bad days sit without turning them into debts. With them, he didn’t have to prove anything.

The contrast made it harder to ignore how things had frayed with the 118.

At first it just seemed like logistics—different shifts picking up, less time on the same calls, a new rhythm that left them crossing paths less and less. But then the texts went unanswered, the calls stopped, the group chat went quiet, at least for him, and he hadn’t fought it.

When Bobby had first come to the 118, Tommy thought it meant a fresh start. No more hiding. No more slurs tossed around behind his back, no more hazing quietly allowed to slide. The 118 had stopped feeling dangerous. But looking back now, he realized what it really was—he’d just latched onto the relief of being out of the fire, never noticing he was still standing in the smoke.

Back then, he thought Hen’s short, sharp way of talking came from confidence. Chimney’s constant ribbing felt like the kind of teasing friends did to each other. Bobby’s quiet nods and the advice he handed out from a distance looked like solid leadership. Therapy made him see it differently.

Hen had taken what Gerard drilled into them and built a whole system out of it. She liked to call it efficiency—always moving, never wasting time. But looking back, Tommy saw it wasn’t efficiency at all. It was a way to cut people off before they got too close. She probably believed she was keeping things smooth, maybe even doing everyone a favor, but really she was just putting up walls.

And she was quick to judge, too—every new person held up against Gerard like they were on trial. If they didn’t measure up to the standard she carried around in her head, they didn’t get far with her.

Chimney picked things up straight from Gerard and passed them on. Most of the time it came out as jokes, but the kind that stung more than they landed. He gave the rookies a hard time, said it was part of the job. That was the line—if you could laugh it off, you belonged, and if you couldn’t, then maybe you weren’t cut out for it. Tommy bought intothat for a while too, because that was all he’d ever seen. It was easier than admitting the truth: nobody was learning anything from it, they were just getting worn down.

Later, Tommy could see that Chimney wasn’t trying to be cruel, not really. He was just repeating what had been done to him. It was the only way he knew to connect, to keep the same rhythm going. He probably thought he was helping in his own way, preparing the probies. But that wasn’t how it was received, and that’s why the probies kept walking out the door.

Bobby was the one everyone leaned on. He kept a steady hand no matter what was happening, and for a long time that steadiness felt like safety. He had his faith, and it gave him a way to anchor himself when things got messy. Tommy respected that, because it was clear Bobby really believed in holding on to something bigger than himself.

But steadiness wasn’t the same as healthy. Bobby’s way of leading meant he stepped in whenever the team started to fall apart. Instead of making people own up to their mistakes, he covered for them. If someone missed a call, froze up, or handled a scene wrong, Bobby found a way to smooth it over so no one had to face it head-on. He thought he was protecting them, maybe even keeping the group together, but what he was really doing was protecting the image of a team that didn’t have problems.

That’s why nothing ever changed. The cracks stayed there under the surface, because Bobby didn’t want to force anyone to look at them. From his point of view, it was mercy. He’d seen enough loss in his own life, and the last thing he wanted was to pile more weight on the people under him. Covering for them felt like kindness, like leadership. But in the long run, it left everyone stuck. They carried the same mistakes forward, never learning, never getting stronger.

He didn’t miss it.

He didn’t know Eddie Diaz well. They’d only crossed paths a few times. But the stories painted a familiar picture—the anger just under the surface, the refusal to ask for help, the pressure to hold everything together until it cracked. That could’ve been him. If he hadn’t left. If Evan hadn’t been there. If he hadn’t been given a reason to want more.

And he had chosen more. That was the part that mattered. He’d finally said yes to therapy, even when it scared him. He’d stepped back from the 118, not because he hated them, but because staying would’ve kept him stuck. He’d chosen Evan, and the steadiness he found there. He’d chosen the crew at 217, people who didn’t carry the same history. Most of all, he’d chosen himself.

People could call it walking away, but it wasn’t betrayal. It was the only way forward. Staying would’ve meant drowning in the same patterns, carrying the same weight until it crushed him. Leaving wasn’t about abandoning anyone. It was about giving himself a chance to breathe.

It was the only way to survive and move on.

Now he sat in a kitchen with people who actually saw him, people who didn’t measure him by what he had endured, he knew he’d made the right choice. There was nothing for him at the 118 anymore.

The Sunday 12-hour shift picked up not long after that kitchen talk. Calls came in steadily—an older man with heatstroke on the docks, a small electrical fire in a houseboat, a teenager who glued their fingers together filming a TikTok.

The usual mess.

And it was a relief. No time to dwell on the 118, no time to think about what had been said or left unsaid. He stayed moving, let the hours drain away through the work.

It wasn’t until he pulled up outside the Grant house that evening that the thoughts returned.

Every Sunday he wasn’t on a 24, he came here. No invite needed anymore. He brought wine and flowers and got teased for both. And every time he walked in, he was met with warmth of family dinners.

The word still caught him sometimes.

Family.

Tommy hadn’t had a real family since he was eighteen, since the night his father told him to pack his things and never come back. For being himself. The army had filled the gap for a while, bonds built on sweat and fear and loss, but even that came with strings attached. The firehouse had been close to it too—teams that felt like family, though in hindsight most of it was proximity and survival.

This was different.

The Grants weren’t perfect, and maybe that was the point. Evan didn’t just fit in here; he was part of it. May treated him like a big brother she’d grown up with. Karen teased him like she’d known him half her life. Athena had practically claimed him as her own. And they never made Tommy feel like an outsider tagging along. He was just… included.

Dinner that night had been another roast, which Tommy didn’t mind. Athena’s roast was better than anything he’d had in years. Karen had come too, Denny trailing behind her, giving Tommy a full recap of her latest lab fiasco while he helped set the table. It was noisy, full of overlapping stories, hands passing plates before anyone finished their sentences. Warm in a way that still caught him off guard sometimes.

Afterward, with May out on a date and the boys locked in a video game battle in Harry’s room, it was just the three of them outside—Tommy, Athena, and Karen—sunk into cushioned chairs with glasses of wine under the stars.

The talk wandered like it always did. Work, Denny’s new teacher, gossip about one of May’s friends. But eventually it edged into rougher ground. The 118.

Karen had been with Hen for more than a decade, and even though their marriage had ended, it was still recent. Athena had been pulled into that mess too, had been friends with Hen, had even dated Bobby for a stretch before she realized it wasn’t going to work.

“He’s not a bad man,” Athena said, tilting her glass. “But he’s not someone I could build a life with. The way he avoids accountability—I wasn’t going to expose my kids to that.”

Karen let out a long breath, swirling her wine before drinking. “I worry about Hen. She shut people out a long time ago, and I get why. Gerard, the department turning their backs on her—it left its mark. But that edge of hers, it isn’t serving her anymore. It doesn’t protect her, it just isolates her.”

“And Bobby,” Athena added, setting her glass down, “he’s all heart, but he’ll bury every red flag he sees just to keep the illusion that everything’s fine.”

There wasn’t bitterness in their voices, just the kind of tired honesty that comes when there’s nothing left to defend.

“They’re not fine,” Tommy said quietly.

Karen reached over, brushed her fingers against his sleeve. “We know. But you can’t help people who don’t want it. And you can’t let them drag you down with them either.”

Athena gave him a small smile. “Wish Evan was here, he has a way of making you believe everything is fixable.”

That earned a soft laugh from all of them. Because it was true. Evan always asked the right question, said the thing you needed to hear. He never made you feel foolish for not getting there on your own.

Tommy leaned back, looking up at the stars. He missed him. It had only been a couple of days, but it felt longer. He took another sip of wine, letting the quiet hang between them. Then his phone buzzed on the patio table, the FaceTime ringtone breaking through the night. His chest tightened with the sound.

Evan.

“Speak of the devil,” Tommy said, already smiling as he picked it up. The screen was still ringing when he turned it toward Athena and Karen. “Look who’s calling.”

Both women leaned in, grinning as he answered and tilted the camera to catch all three of them.

“Hey, babe—”

Tommy’s grin faltered the second Evan’s face appeared. His eyes were red, lashes still damp, the kind of worn-down look Tommy hadn’t seen before. Evan tried for a smile, but it was too thin, too shaky.

Athena leaned in right away, concern written all over her. “Buckaroo, are you ok?”

Evan let out a laugh that broke halfway into a sob. “Hey,” he said, voice catching. “Uh… no. Not really.”

Tommy’s chest tightened. His hand gripped the phone harder, as if it might steady Evan through the screen.

“What happened?” Karen asked gently.

Evan’s breath came out uneven. “When I got to Hershey, the police were already waiting for me.” That alone made Tommy’s stomach drop. Evan pushed on, eyes flicking as if he was piecing it together in real time. “It wasn’t what I thought. About Maddie. About why she cut me off.”

Tommy swallowed, throat dry. He knew how much the silence had wrecked Evan—years of unanswered calls, birthdays and holidays spent wondering. Evan had always held on to this belief that Maddie would come back when she was ready.

“She didn’t abandon me,” Evan said, blinking fast. “Her husband—Doug—he was abusing her. For years.”

Tommy’s hand curled into a fist against the table.

“I thought she left because of me,” Evan went on. “But she was trying to survive. When she found out she was pregnant a few months ago, she finally ran. She didn’t want her kids growing up in that.”

The patio went still.

“They stayed with our parents,” Evan said, his jaw tight. “I guess they let her hide there, but when the babies were born and the crying started, Margaret couldn’t take it. So she called Doug.”

Karen swore under her breath.

“She must’ve thought Maddie was exaggerating,” Evan said, his voice breaking. “Like there was no way he was abusive, because they would’ve known, right?”

Tommy’s chest ached. He knew that kind of dismissal too well.

Evan shook his head, bitter now. “Margaret said it’d be better if Doug came to get the twins. He showed up with a gun. He killed my parents and then killed Maddie and himself in a double suicide.”

Karen’s hand flew to her mouth. Athena didn’t move, her glass forgotten in her lap, eyes wide with shock.

“They found the twins about an hour later,” Evan whispered. His voice caught as he went on. “They were crying, and they were hungry, but they were alive.” He paused, trying to steady himself. “Joshua is one of my closest friends from high school, and he just got his foster license. When he heard they were Buckleys, he stepped in right away. Kept them with him, made sure they were safe until I could get here.”

The line went quiet.

Karen shifted finally, still absorbing it. “What are you going to do, sweetheart? With the twins?”

Evan broke then, scrubbing at his face with his sleeve, shaking his head like he couldn’t even start. “They don’t even have names,” he said, his voice cracking. “Weeks old, and no one named them. Just ‘the boy’ and ‘the girl.’”

“Okay,” Tommy’s chest twisted. “Then name them.”

Evan blinked, thrown. “What?”

“If they’re yours,” Tommy said, “start by naming them. Right now.”

Evan looked like he might push back, but something softened instead. “The boy… Graham?” he said quietly. “And the girl… Brie?”

Athena let out a sudden laugh. “Of course you’d name them after food.”

“Sweets,” Karen corrected, shaking her head but smiling.

Evan flushed, ducking his head, eyes still shining. “I didn’t mean to,” he muttered. “It just came out.”

“It fits,” Tommy said softly.

Something moved across Evan’s face, slow and unsteady, like it took a second for his mind to catch up. Awe settled in, quiet but undeniable. His mouth parted slightly, as if the words had just finally reached him and there was no pushing them aside.

“I’m a dad,” he whispered, barely loud enough for anyone else to hear. His eyes darted back to Tommy, and the awe cracked into panic. “Oh my God. I’m a dad.”

“We’ve got two extra bedrooms, Evan. It’s perfect.” Tommy tried to reassure him.

Evan just stared at him.

Tommy’s smile pulled soft. “All we’re missing is the dog.”

That got him. Evan’s mouth twitched, the smile small but real, shaky around the edges. “As long as it’s not a golden retriever,” he said, wiping at his nose. “I already get enough golden retriever jokes. I don’t need a mascot to match.”

Athena chuckled. “You’re halfway there, Buckaroo. Might as well own it.”

Karen leaned in toward the phone. “Do you have middle names yet?”

Evan shook his head, looked back at Tommy. “Do you?”

Tommy froze, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected that—Evan asking, pulling him in like it was already settled, like these babies were theirs. His chest ached, sharp and good all at once.

He didn’t think long. “Oliver and Love.”

Evan blinked. Then smiled. “Yeah. I like that.”

Karen clapped her hands together. “Graham Oliver and Brie Love Buckley. Perfect.”

“Damn good,” Athena agreed, lifting her glass. “Congratulations, you two.”

And for the first time on the call, Evan laughed. Not the shaky, exhausted sound from before, but a real one.

Tommy watched him, barely breathing.

Family. He had one now. Kids. And maybe, if things kept moving the way they were, a husband not too far behind.

Because Graham Oliver and Brie Love Buckley were beautiful names. But sitting there on the patio, phone warm in his hand and wine forgotten beside him, Tommy couldn’t help but think—

Graham Oliver and Brie Love Kinnard sounded even better.