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Sometimes Buck watches Hen and Eddie from across the room, eyes flicking to where Eddie’s laughing—the easy kind, the kind he hasn’t heard in years. Hen bumps Eddie’s shoulder, something quick and affectionate, and Buck smiles like it doesn’t catch. Like it doesn’t twist somewhere deep in him. He’s happy to hear it—he is—but the warmth in his chest burns on both sides.
Some moments, it feels like Buck has been orbiting the same sun for too long, and Eddie’s light has moved just slightly out of reach. He swallows it. He always swallows it. Because Eddie’s happy. Eddie doesn’t need Buck to complicate that.
Or, Eddie convinces himself it’s not about Buck. (It is.) Buck tries explaining romance to a six-month-old.
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