let’s ruin the friendship
— part four (part one | part two | part three)
pairing: Evan “Buck” Buckley x fem!reader
summary: after a painful break, you gave Buck the chance to fix everything. But it seems that no matter how much you try – nothing is working out…
author’s note: guys, I’m finally finishing this series and I think it’s my favorite part😭 let me know what you think in the comments and thank you for reading this story🫶🏼
| p.s. requests are open🫧
taglist: @notmeduhh @staygolf @tamajiki7
Yet, as the days turned into weeks, the shadows of your past began to creep back in. Old insecurities resurfaced, and the fear of being abandoned again gnawed at your heart. You found yourself questioning every little thing - every late-night text, every moment of silence. Was he truly committed, or was he just saying what you wanted to hear?
Then came the night that changed everything. You were curled up on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when a notification popped up. It was a message from Eddie, but it wasn't just any message. It was a photo. A very controversial photo.
His arm draped around a woman’s shoulders — someone you’d never seen before.
Both of them mid-laugh, faces tilted toward each other like they’d known each other for years.
The caption cut through you like a knife: “Crazy night! Old friends back in town 🎉”
Your chest tightened so fast it knocked the air out of you.
You sat frozen, staring at the screen, a slow, suffocating cold blooming in your gut.
You squeezed your eyes shut, gripping the phone so hard your knuckles ached. For a second, you thought you might hurl it across the room, shatter it just to stop seeing that image — but you didn’t. You just sat there, trembling, as every sharp, ugly thought came roaring back.
Had you been a fool to believe him?
To believe in second chances, in apologies, in the way his voice cracked when he told you he was “working on it”?
“Saw the photo on his story. Just wanted to say… breathe. Maybe talk to him first.”
You let out a shaky, humorless laugh.
What was there to say? That you’d barely held yourself together these past months, clinging to the hope that the two of you were rebuilding something real? That every time you let your guard down, you wondered if you were just handing him another weapon to hurt you with? That some nights, you still woke up reaching for him, heart racing, only to remember he wasn’t there — because you’d been the one to leave?
You stared at the photo again, your vision blurring with hot, furious tears.
It wasn’t the woman. It wasn’t the bar.
It was the fact that somewhere, deep down, you’d always known this was coming.
You let the phone slip from your hand, landing with a dull thud on the couch cushion.
You sat in the suffocating silence of your apartment, the weight of heartbreak pressing down until you felt hollow, until you weren’t sure there was even anything left to break.
You had wanted to believe love was enough. That if you waited, if you fought, if you forgave, eventually you’d both come out the other side, whole.
But maybe the cruelest truth of all was this:
Sometimes, love just isn’t enough.
The next morning, your phone buzzed again.
“That photo looked bad, I know. But nothing happened. Please, let’s talk.”
You stared at the message, the words blurring together.
You could almost hear his voice, almost feel the way his arms would wrap around you if you let them.
You set the phone down, your chest aching, your throat tight.
You weren’t ready to talk.
You weren’t sure you ever would be.
For the first time, you realized the choice was yours.
And maybe — just maybe — you were finally done waiting for him to catch up.
That same night, you couldn’t sleep.
You lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding with a sick mix of anger, longing, and exhaustion. His text burned a hole in your chest. You hated that part of you still wanted to believe him. Hated that part of you still loved him.
Before you could overthink it, you sat up, shoved on your jacket, grabbed your keys.
If this was going to break you, you wanted to face it head-on.
His apartment door loomed in front of you like a dare.
You raised your hand to knock — and then the door swung open.
Buck stood there, wide-eyed, barefoot, hair a mess, like he’d been pacing, waiting for this moment.
“(Y/N),” he breathed. “You’re here.”
You held yourself stiff, arms crossed, your voice ice-cold. “Explain.”
His mouth opened, then closed. He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”
You laughed, sharp and bitter. “God, Buck. Do you even hear yourself?”
“I swear —” he stepped closer, desperate — “she’s an old friend. From back home. She’s married, (Y/N), I didn’t even —”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
Your voice cracked. “Why did I have to see it on Instagram like everyone else?”
His face crumpled. “I messed up.”
“Yeah,” you whispered, chest heaving. “You did.”
He took a shaky breath, eyes glassy. “I’ve been going to therapy. Trying to be better. For you. For us. But every day without you, I felt like I was drowning. And when she came to town, it was just… familiar, easy. I wasn’t thinking. I should have told you. I was scared.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, fists clenched at your sides. “Scared of what, Buck? That I’d leave you? Newsflash — I already did once.”
Silence stretched between you, raw and heavy.
When you opened your eyes, you saw it: the panic, the regret, the sheer vulnerability on his face.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I never stopped.”
Tears blurred your vision. You shook your head, voice barely a breath. “Love was never the problem, Buck.”
He stepped closer, so close you could feel the heat of him. “Then tell me how to fix this. Tell me what you need. Please.”
You swallowed hard. You could feel the walls around your heart crumbling, the part of you that had always, always wanted to believe him.
“Start by proving,” you whispered, “that I’m not just something you run back to when you’re lonely.”
His hands trembled as he reached for you — but he didn’t touch you. Not yet.
“I will,” he swore, voice hoarse. “I swear, I will.”
For the first time that night, you let yourself believe it was possible.
But maybe, just maybe, worth the fight.
The days that followed blurred into a haze.
Buck texted, he called, he showed up.
He left little notes on your door —
“Please let me prove this.”
He sent you photos of the little changes: the therapy sessions, the long runs he took alone just to clear his head.
And for a while, you let him.
You watched from a distance.
But inside, something was breaking.
Tired of riding the highs when he was trying and crashing into the lows when he wasn’t.
Tired of wondering when the next disappointment would hit.
Tired of feeling like you were holding your breath, hoping this time would be different.
One night, weeks after that first confrontation, you sat across from him at your favorite old coffee shop.
He looked at you like you hung the stars.
His eyes were soft, raw, desperate.
He was rambling about the progress he’d made, the mistakes he’d owned, the way he was learning to show up better.
“I know I screwed up,” he murmured, reaching across the table for your hand. “But you’re it for me, (Y/N). You always were. I just… I was too stupid to realize it before.”
You felt his fingers close around yours.
You used to dream of this touch.
You stared down at your intertwined hands and felt… nothing.
No spark. No thrill. No desperate, aching hope.
Just a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.
“Buck…” you whispered, voice breaking. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
His eyes widened, panic flashing across his face. “What? No — no, please, I’m trying. I’m fighting for you. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
You closed your eyes, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I wanted you to fight before I was too tired to care.”
The words hung in the air like a gut punch.
He let go of your hand like you’d burned him. His breath hitched, hands shaking as he dragged them through his hair.
“(Y/N), please — I see it now, okay? You’re it. You’re the one I want. I can’t lose you, not like this.”
You let out a soft, broken laugh. “You didn’t just lose me now, Buck. You’ve been losing me in pieces. Every time you made me doubt, every time you left me wondering if I mattered, every time you promised you’d change and didn’t.”
You reached across the table, brushing your fingers against his cheek. He leaned into the touch like a starving man.
“I love you,” you whispered. “I will probably always love you.”
Your voice cracked. “But I need something you can’t seem to give me, Buck. I need stability. I need to feel safe with you.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, shoulders shaking. “I can be that. I swear I can.”
But you saw it — the fragility, the desperation, the way he was clinging to you like you were his only lifeline.
And you knew: you couldn’t be his lifeline.
You stood slowly, heart breaking in your chest.
“I’m not saying never,” you whispered. “But I’m saying… not right now.”
His head snapped up, eyes wide, glassy. “(Y/N), don’t —”
You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
“Fight for yourself first, Buck. When you can stand on your own… maybe we’ll have a chance.”
And then you turned and walked away, leaving him trembling in that coffee shop, the weight of everything he’d just realized crashing down on him.
She was the love of his life.
And for the first time, he understood what it meant to lose her.
6 months that followed were quiet, yet tumultuous in their own way. The distance you’d created between you and Buck — the space that felt like a chasm between two people who once shared everything — gave you the chance to breathe. You took time to heal, to rediscover parts of yourself that had been clouded by him, by your shared history. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary.
And for the first time, you felt whole.
Not because you had given up on Buck.
But because you had given up on the need for him to be your everything.
You spent late nights walking through the city with your dog, learning the rhythm of your own steps without looking for someone to follow. You spent mornings sipping coffee on your balcony, watching the world wake up, free from the weight of a relationship that had once felt like a lifeline but had become an anchor.
It was a rainy afternoon when you ran into him again. The moment felt almost too perfect — too planned by fate.
You were at a bookshop, the soft scent of paper and coffee surrounding you as you browsed the shelves. You didn’t expect him. You hadn’t expected to ever see him again in this way. The last time you’d parted, there were so many things left unsaid — and so much pain still between you.
Buck was standing by the counter, speaking with the cashier. He turned when the bell above the door jingled, his eyes locking onto yours immediately. For a moment, you both stood there, frozen in time. Your heart didn’t race, though. It didn’t crash into your chest like it used to. Instead, there was this calm awareness of who you were and who he was — two people who had been through something, who had both changed.
His face softened, a tender smile curving his lips. “(Y/N),” he said, his voice warm but tinged with hesitation.
Neither of you said anything more at first. You both knew there was so much more behind that one word — the years together, the heartbreak, the distance, the space that had become something sacred in its own way. You both had been through the storm and come out on the other side, stronger and quieter.
Finally, Buck cleared his throat, his eyes not leaving yours. “I’ve been thinking about you… about us.” His voice was lower now, more intimate. “I know we’ve both needed time. But I can’t pretend I don’t miss you, (Y/N).”
You met his gaze without flinching, your own heart now a little more open. “I miss you, too.”
But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the desperate, needy kind of missing you once felt. It was a quiet longing, a yearning for something that had always been just beneath the surface. You had both been searching for something more — but this time, it felt more grounded.
The tension hung in the air, thick with unspoken emotions, but there was no rush. This time, it felt different.
“How have you been?” You asked, breaking the silence. It was an easy question, but it held a weight, a question that was more than just small talk.
“I’ve been… learning,” Buck said, his gaze soft and contemplative. “About myself. About what I need. And what I can give. It’s been hard. But I’ve had time to look at the bigger picture. And I see you now, (Y/N). I see you for who you are, not just who I thought you were.”
There it was. That truth. That clarity you’d both been searching for.
You smiled, something tender flickering inside you. “I see you too. Not the person I was angry with, but the person you’re becoming.” You stepped closer, the distance between you narrowing in a way that felt both natural and charged. “I think I’ve always seen you, Buck. But I had to let go of the idea that you could save me. That we could save each other.”
His breath hitched, and then he stepped forward, slowly, carefully. “I know I can’t save you, (Y/N). I just want to walk with you. If you’ll let me.”
His voice was soft, deep, filled with something raw, something vulnerable. And you felt it. His honesty. His understanding. His willingness to be there without needing to own you.
You didn’t say anything at first. The words were there, but the silence between you both felt like the perfect answer. You reached out and gently cupped his cheek. The contact was warm, familiar, but there was something new in it, too.
His eyes fluttered closed, and for a moment, he just leaned into your touch, breathing you in. His hand reached up to cover yours, and in that touch, you felt the weight of everything you had gone through together. The grief. The hurt. The lessons. And now, the softness, the space between you both.
“I’m tired of the games, Buck,” you whispered, your thumb tracing the outline of his jaw. “Tired of wondering. I need stability. I need to know you’re here, and you’re not going anywhere.”
Buck opened his eyes, his gaze deep and unguarded. “I’m not going anywhere, (Y/N). Not anymore. Not if you’ll have me.”
You leaned forward then, slowly, carefully. No rush. No urgency. Just two people, acknowledging what was between them. His lips met yours gently, softly at first, like a question, a plea. But as your mouths moved together, the kiss deepened, slow and sensual, filled with the weight of everything you had both been through. It wasn’t about passion in the way it used to be. It wasn’t about the desperate, fiery desire to fix something.
It was about connection. About trust. About the quiet certainty that this, right now, was exactly what you both needed.
When you finally pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, eyes closed, breathing him in like a memory you hadn’t realized you missed.
“You feel that?” he asked softly, his hand brushing through your hair.
And for the first time in a long time, there was no need for words, no need to define what this was. The connection between you both was palpable, deep and steady, not the tempest it once had been, but a calm, understanding tide.
“I think we can do this,” Buck whispered, his voice filled with quiet hope. “We can do this the right way. Together.”
You nodded again, your heart in your chest now a steady, certain beat. “Together.”
And as you stood there, with him — no longer lost, no longer afraid — you finally understood what it meant to love without the need to control, to love without fear, and to love with a maturity that only time and heartache could teach.
The world outside was still, as if holding its breath, waiting for you to take the next step. And you did, hand in hand, knowing that whatever came next, you were no longer searching for someone to save you. You were saving each other — not with promises, but with the quiet, unspoken understanding that you had learned what it really meant to love.
One year later, the rhythm of your life with Buck had settled into something familiar, something warm and real. The world had continued on, of course, but it felt like time had slowed down just for the two of you — allowing you to savor the moments that mattered most.
Your home had become a reflection of the two of you: cozy, lived-in, with traces of your individual personalities weaving seamlessly together. There was always music playing, a soft hum in the background of your shared life, and the steady warmth of the space felt like a constant embrace.
The mornings were quiet, spent in the kitchen with the smell of coffee brewing as you two shared the peacefulness of being together, without the rush, without the uncertainty. Buck would occasionally sneak up behind you as you were making breakfast, wrapping his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, his presence now as comforting as your own heartbeat.
One particular Saturday, you were in the kitchen again, your focus entirely on chopping vegetables for dinner. Buck, ever the natural observer, was on the couch nearby, scrolling through his phone, occasionally glancing at you, his mind half on his device, half on the gentle rhythm of your movements.
You hummed a song, completely unaware of his gaze, completely lost in the simplicity of the task at hand. You were wearing one of his old t-shirts, the sleeves rolled up to your elbows, and your hair was up in a messy bun, with strands escaping here and there. He couldn’t help but watch, mesmerized by how beautiful you looked in this quiet, everyday moment. The way your brow furrowed slightly as you concentrated. The way your hands moved so naturally, as if every action had its own grace.
He leaned back on the couch, completely still, his heart swelling in his chest.
He had seen you in so many different lights — in the moments of conflict, of pain, of healing — but now, here you were, just being you. You, in your element, making dinner with the same quiet confidence you brought to everything else. And, in that moment, Buck realized something he hadn’t fully acknowledged before: he didn’t need to fix you, or save you, or try to be something else to earn your love.
You had always been whole.
He had just needed to learn how to love you — the right way.
A deep, contented sigh escaped his lips as he finally stood up from the couch. Quietly, so as not to disturb your focus, he walked over to you. The distance between you both felt smaller than it had ever been before. He gently placed his hands on your waist, pulling you back slightly so you were pressed against him. His chin rested lightly on your shoulder, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of your breaths.
For a few moments, the two of you simply stood there, wrapped in the ease of one another's presence.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his lips brushing the skin of your neck. The words were soft, full of meaning.
You chuckled lightly, “I’m just chopping veggies, Buck.”
He smiled, closing his eyes as he held you a little tighter. “No, you’re beautiful because of moments like this. It’s not the big things, you know? It’s the little things.”
You turned your head slightly, enough to meet his gaze. There was something in his eyes that made your heart flutter — that deep, unspoken affection, that certainty in his love for you. The past was behind you, both of you having learned the hard way what it meant to love, to truly love.
The space between you both was filled with a quiet, warm kind of intimacy. The kind of love that had weathered storms, but had also grown — grown into something stable, something secure.
You smiled, leaning your head against his, your hands still working on the vegetables, even as you felt his presence filling you.
“I love you,” you whispered, the words as easy to say now as they had been difficult before.
He kissed the side of your neck gently, his voice rough but filled with sincerity. “I love you more than you’ll ever know.”
A silence stretched between you, but it was peaceful. Comfortable. The kind of silence that came from two people who had finally found the right rhythm with each other.
Buck pulled back just enough to look at you fully, his hand brushing some stray hairs from your face. His gaze softened, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. He just admired you. The woman you had become. The woman who had taught him that love wasn’t about perfection, but about finding someone who makes life feel more like home.
And in that moment, Buck realized something deep in his chest: He was proud of himself — proud of the man he had become, proud of the life he had built with you. He had fought for this, fought for your trust, fought for the kind of love that wasn’t fleeting, that wasn’t built on a foundation of uncertainty.
No, this was real. And he had done something right.
His hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing across your skin in slow, deliberate motions.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
You furrowed your brow slightly, puzzled. “For what?”
“For giving me a chance to do this the right way. For not giving up on me. For believing in us.”
You smiled, a soft, knowing smile. "We did this together, Buck."
And in that moment, you both knew — without a single word more — that this was the love that was meant to last. Not because it was easy, but because you both had chosen each other, time and time again.
No more roller coasters, no more waiting for the next storm to hit. Just a steady, unshakable love. A love that had found its footing, a love that had grown into something mature, something grounded.
And for the first time, as you leaned into him, allowing yourself to be held in his arms, you both felt the deep satisfaction that comes with knowing you had created something real, something lasting. You weren’t perfect, and neither was he, but together, you were exactly what you both needed.
And Buck — for the first time in his life — felt like he had truly done good.
Let me know what you think🩵 did you like this series/part?
