9-1-1 but buck takes a leave from the 118 to participate in a baking competition show and the other contestants are like "wow get a load of this guy, some himbo firefighter who only started baking like a year ago"
but then buck performs really well for a few reasons: bobby's voice in the back of his mind guiding him, his ability to work well under pressure, and his desire to prove himself
nah screw big confessions, just imagine buck in the living room preparing for a sleepover and eddie accidentally, on reflex kisses him goodnight on the forehead/hair like he usually kisses chris
and they just freeze, time stops, like what the hell
and then eddie awkwardly steps away, mumbles some apologies and goes to his room
and buck is freaking out half the night because what the hell, is there a chance, just a tiny chance it's not a slip up? maybe, just maybe eddie feels something similar? this big scary weird complex complicated mixed up love?
and then they bump into each other in the kitchen making morning coffee and buck just smiles, eddie smiles back and something clicks just right and they feel the weight lifting and it's easier to breathe for some reason
and maybe eddie starts kissing him goodnight at first, moving to goodbye kisses and then hello kisses
and maybe buck adds his own good morning kisses and end of shift ones and thank you kisses as well
and maybe they never needed a big loud confession because it was all on the surface, someone just needed to be brave enough to make a first step and establish the right physical dynamic
“You’re strong. You’re brave. You’re the best partner I’ve ever had. And the most real person I know.” ˚ ༘ 🦕
Synopsis: You’ve come a long way from the girl your parents tried to mold. LA gave you a second chance, and the 118 gave you a reason to stay. But when your estranged parents return, suddenly everything you’ve fought for — your healing, your self-worth — starts slipping through your fingers. And Buck, who knows what it's like to be made to feel like you’re never enough, refuses to let you spiral alone.
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff
AU: None
Pairing: Evan Buckley x Paramedic!Afab!Reader
Warnings: Emotionally unavailable parents, mentions of familial and childhood trauma, body image issues.
Note: This is based on an actual realization I had with my own parents, because they always try to mold me into someone I’m not. If you’re going through something similar, please know that your self worth is not tied to these people and their opinions do not matter. Lots of hugs! Don’t forget to like + reblog as well because they are very much appreciated.
You were never enough — not for the parents who raised you, not for the version of success they carved out long before you had a say.
They wanted you in a white coat or behind a desk in a pristine office with your name etched in gold on the door.
Doctor. CEO.
Something to brag about at parties, something that didn’t involve dirt-stained boots or adrenaline-fueled sirens screaming through the city.
But that was never you.
You were the one who ran headfirst into chaos, hands steady, heart louder than logic.
You were the paramedic on the front lines — saving people, stitching lives back together in the middle of a street, on the floor of someone’s living room, beneath flickering streetlamps at 3AM. You were the kind of woman who found herself in the mess, not behind a polished title.
And when you weren’t holding someone’s pulse in your palm, you were sketching out the day on the back of call sheets, painting the quiet between shifts, listening to music the way some people listened for meaning.
Your mother never liked that either.
“You’re hiding behind your hobbies,” she used to say. “You could be someone if you just tried harder. You look like someone.”
She always said that like it was a curse — like beauty meant you owed the world something performative. Like being seen was more important than being whole.
But you had built yourself up — brick by stubborn brick — from the ache of being overlooked. And in the firehouse, with the roar of engines and the quiet camaraderie of those who understood, you had finally found peace.
Especially in him.
Buck wasn’t just a fellow firefighter.
He was your calm in the storm. He was the one who didn’t flinch when you unraveled, the one who saw past the version of you shaped by pressure and criticism. He never tried to change you — only reminded you of who you already were.
The girl your parents tried to remake… she didn’t survive the shift.
But the woman standing in her place? She carried trauma, yes — but she also carried purpose. Family. The kind that came with turnout coats, inside jokes, and a seat saved at the station table.
And most days, that was more than enough.
Until they came back.
The sun hadn’t fully broken over Los Angeles yet, but the city was already humming — slow and sleepy in some corners, chaotic in others.
Buck had his usual iced coffee in one hand, his keys in the other, and your favorite breakfast sandwich tucked into a brown bag he pretended not to make a big deal about.
You teased him for it every time, but the way he shrugged and smiled like it was second nature made it harder and harder not to fall for him again each morning.
“You still deny I’m your favorite,” he grinned, handing you the bag as you slid into the passenger seat of his truck.
“You’re not my favorite,” you said, already biting into the sandwich. “You just bring good food.”
Buck smirked. “That’s basically the same thing.”
It had been a slow, quiet thing between the two of you. Not the blazing, dramatic romance people wrote songs about — but something softer.
Healed.
It came after the long nights, after the therapy sessions, after the breakdowns and the breakthrough that came after.
You weren’t looking to be rescued anymore. Neither was he.
Instead, you’d built something steady — like muscle memory, like breath.
You woke up, met him outside of your apartment, showed up to work, made fun of each other in the locker room, rolled your eyes when Hen caught you smiling too wide.
It was comfort. It was ease.
And lately, it felt like the kind of thing you could build a life around.
At the station, the team had already claimed their seats in the kitchen — Hen nursing her coffee like a lifeline, Chim flipping through a magazine he probably had no intention of reading, Eddie snorting at something Ravi said under his breath, and Buck sliding into the seat beside you.
“You gonna eat both of those pieces or are you feeling generous today?”
“Generous, with you? Never,” you shot back, pushing your half-finished plate toward him anyway. He beamed like you’d just handed him gold.
Bobby walked in mid-laugh, muttering something about the last shift’s messy truck logs, before giving you both a nod.
You felt a flicker of gratitude settle under your ribs — like maybe this was your real beginning. Like the ghosts from your childhood didn’t have a place at this table anymore.
Then your phone buzzed.
It was a simple vibration at first. One you ignored.
Then another.
Then a third.
You reached into your hoodie pocket without thinking, glancing at the screen as Buck leaned over to grab the creamer behind you.
Mom.
Dad.
No message. Just the names lighting up your screen in tandem, like they were waiting to be let in again.
You froze for a second too long.
“You okay?” Buck asked, catching the shift in your posture.
You nodded quickly, sliding the phone screen-down onto the table. “Yeah. Just spam.”
“Spam with your last name?” Hen raised a brow, sipping her coffee. You shot her a subtle glare that only made her grin.
Buck didn't press, but his eyes lingered a second longer than usual, quietly clocking the change in your mood.
You forced yourself to laugh along with the team as Chim started mocking something Ravi said, but your head was miles away.
You hadn’t seen your parents in a little over a year and a half. Not since the last screaming match that ended in a slammed door and a one way plane ticket back to LA without looking back.
They’d always wanted you to be someone else — and for a long time, you thought if you just tried hard enough, you'd become that person. But you had come a long way since then.
You weren’t a project anymore. You weren’t unfinished.
You were someone now.
And yet, all it took was one notification to make your stomach twist like you were seventeen and living under their roof again.
Buck gently nudged your knee under the table.
“You sure you’re good?”
You looked at him — really looked — and for a moment, you wanted to tell him everything.
How scared you were to open that message. How tired you were of being molded into someone else’s dream. How the life you had now felt fragile suddenly, like it could be taken away the second you let the past back in.
But the moment passed.
“Yeah,” you lied, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”
Buck watched you carefully, like he didn’t believe you — but also didn’t want to push you before you were ready. Instead, he smiled softly and handed you the last bite of your sandwich.
“Well, wake up. You’ve got another twelve hours with my charming self.”
You laughed — because it was easier than crying — and took the food from his hand.
“Lucky me.”
But in the back of your mind, the messages waited.
And you knew it was only a matter of time before you’d have to decide whether to open the door… or finally close it for good.
The call wasn’t heavy, not in the way that stuck to your skin for days. A minor traffic collision, a few broken bones, a scared kid who wouldn’t stop clinging to Chimney until his mom arrived.
It was the kind of run that made your heart squeeze in a different way — the kind that reminded you of everything fragile about the world.
You were quiet on the way back. Buck noticed.
You knew he did because his eyes found you in the rearview mirror more than once, flickering between the road and the crease between your brows.
Back at the firehouse, everyone scattered.
Hen went to check inventory in the rig, her clipboard in hand and a pencil tucked behind her ear. Eddie was helping Ravi clean out the squad, their laughter drifting faintly through the open bay doors.
Bobby had vanished into his office, probably knee-deep in the usual mountain of paperwork. Chim was in the kitchen, half-singing under his breath as he prepped dinner for the shift.
And Buck?
Buck waited.
He always waited — not in a way that hovered, but in a way that reminded you he’d be there when you were ready.
“Wanna go up?” he asked gently, nudging your elbow.
You didn’t need to ask what he meant.
The rooftop had become your shared place. A quiet, liminal space above the chaos — where the world slowed down just long enough for you both to breathe.
You nodded.
The city stretched around you, a sea of lights blinking to life against the late afternoon haze. Traffic buzzed below like static, and the sky was turning the soft kind of orange that only LA could pull off.
You sat beside Buck, your shoulders brushing, your knees tucked to your chest. For a while, neither of you spoke.
You just leaned into his side, and he draped an arm around you with practiced ease, his hand rubbing small, absent-minded circles into your back.
“I promised,” you finally murmured.
Buck tilted his head, watching you from the corner of his eye.
“Promised what?”
“No secrets. That I’d talk to you.” You swallowed thickly, staring at your fingers. “They texted again. My parents.”
His hand stilled on your back.
You didn’t look at him yet. You weren’t ready for the weight of that gaze.
“They… they’re here. In LA.”
Buck stayed quiet, which somehow gave you the space to keep going.
“I thought they were just passing through. I didn’t want to make it a big deal. I told myself I’d just ignore it. But then they sent this message and said they wanted to talk. That they’d been thinking about me. About everything.”
You laughed — a short, bitter sound.
“And part of me wants to believe it. That maybe people really can change. I mean… look at you. Look at Maddie. Even your parents. They’re trying. The Hans too. And it made me think — if they can change, why can’t mine?”
Buck’s arm pulled you a little closer, his voice quiet.
“Because yours hurt you. Not just once. Not just in passing. But over and over again.”
You turned your face into his chest, the soft fabric of his hoodie muffling your thoughts.
“They hated who I was,” you said.
“Not just what I did — not being a paramedic, not choosing a job where I get to help people every day — but who I was. I liked art. I liked movement. I liked not needing their permission to be myself. And they said it made me selfish. Undisciplined. Unlovable.”
Buck’s hand cradled the back of your head, his thumb brushing gently at your temple.
“You’re not any of those things,” he whispered.
“You’re strong. You’re brave. You’re the best partner I’ve ever had. And the most real person I know.”
You breathed in, grounding yourself in his scent — laundry detergent and smoke and something unshakably him.
“But it still hurts,” you admitted.
“Even after all this time. Even when I tell myself I’ve built a life. That I’m good. That I’m okay now. All it took was one message and suddenly I feel like I’m fifteen again and nothing I do will ever be enough.”
Buck exhaled slowly, resting his cheek against the top of your head.
“You’ve come too far to let them take that from you.”
“But what if they really mean it this time?” you whispered.
“What if they want to make amends? What if I don’t even give them the chance?”
Buck didn’t answer right away. He waited, thoughtful, like he was measuring his words carefully.
“I used to think that too,” he said.
“When I went back to my parents’ house that time… I wanted so badly for it to be different. I wanted them to see me. The version of me I worked so damn hard to become. But the thing is — it’s not about them. It never was.”
You looked up at him slowly, heart pounding in your chest.
“It’s about what you need to feel safe. To feel whole,” he continued. “And you already built that. You don’t need to let them back in to prove you’re healed.”
He brushed your hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your jaw.
“But if you do let them back in… do it for you. Not because they suddenly remembered how to be parents.”
That cracked something open in you.
For the first time in hours, you let the tears fall — quiet, cathartic, and honest. Buck didn’t flinch. He just held you tighter, kissed your forehead, and waited with you on that rooftop like he always did.
And in that moment, you knew something with perfect clarity:
You weren’t a teenager anymore.
You weren’t trying to earn love from people who only ever saw you as a reflection of their own regrets.
You had a home now — not in a place, but in people.
In Buck. In Hen. In Bobby. In Chim. In Ravi. In Eddie. In the family you chose at the 118.
And maybe — just maybe — that was more than enough.
At first, it was fine. Or at least, it looked fine.
The meeting with your parents was held in a neutral place — some polished brunch spot on the West Side with cold-pressed juices and overpriced eggs.
They hugged you like they meant it. They said they missed you. They even asked about your job, your friends, your life.
You let yourself hope. Just a little.
But it didn’t take long for the cracks to show.
“You look tired,” your mom said, peering across the table. “Are you still not using concealer?”
A laugh followed, as if she’d just made a joke. You forced a smile.
Later, your dad — swirling his coffee absentmindedly — asked, “So… are you really planning to stay a paramedic forever?”
Your heart dropped like a stone.
“Not that we don’t respect what you do,” he added quickly, as if softening the blow.
“It’s just… there’s more out there. You’re smart. You could still go back to school. Do something that really stretches you.”
You gripped your fork too tight.
“I like what I do,” you answered, steady and restrained. “I help people. Every single day.”
They didn’t argue. But their silence screamed louder than words.
That was the beginning.
The comments didn’t stop. They just evolved — small, needling remarks that made you second-guess the things you’d worked so hard to reclaim.
“You know, if you just dressed a little differently, you'd look even more put together.”
“This haircut is cute, but the last one made your face look slimmer.”
“I still think you’d do well in PR — you’ve always had a nice smile.”
They cloaked it all in faux concern, under the guise of caring. But what they were really doing was trying to remake you into something they could understand.
Someone more acceptable. More palatable. Less you.
You thought you could handle it.
You thought — after everything you’d survived, after years of therapy, after finding love and home in the 118 — that you were immune to their power.
But you weren’t.
Not entirely.
You didn’t tell anyone. Not even Buck.
You kept coming into work with a smile on your face, your uniform pressed, your voice steady. You carried your gear like it weighed nothing, even when your shoulders ached from the stress you weren’t admitting.
But the little things gave you away.
You started zoning out during debriefs — just for a second or two — like your mind had floated somewhere else.
Somewhere darker.
You’d stopped lingering at mirrors in the locker room, dressing quickly, avoiding the impulse to check your reflection.
Even compliments from Hen or Chim started to land wrong — twisting into something warped by the things your parents had said.
And worst of all: you skipped breakfast. Sometimes lunch, too.
You didn’t mean to. You just weren’t hungry. Or maybe you just didn’t want to hear that quiet voice in your head — your mother’s — telling you to be careful about portion sizes.
Buck noticed.
Of course he did.
He noticed how your uniform hung differently. How your laugh didn’t reach your eyes. How you hadn’t touched your smoothie after a call and shrugged it off with “I’m just tired.”
He watched you push food around your plate at dinner. Watched you duck out of team photos when Bobby tried to snap one for the wall. Watched you smile through gritted teeth like your jaw was wired shut.
And Buck — for all his light and warmth — knew darkness when he saw it.
One night, after a long shift, he waited until everyone had gone. You were packing your things in the locker room when he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable.
“You ever gonna tell me what’s really going on?”
You froze.
“Because I know you,” he continued softly. “And you’re slipping.”
You turned around slowly, blinking too fast.
“I’m fine, Buck.”
“No, you’re not,” he said, moving toward you.
“You haven’t been fine for weeks. You barely eat, you’re constantly somewhere else in your head, and you flinch when anyone compliments you. That’s not you. That’s not the you I know.”
You swallowed hard, looking at the floor.
“I didn’t want to make it real,” you admitted. “I thought… if I didn’t talk about it, it wouldn’t stick.”
Buck’s hands found your shoulders, gentle and grounding.
“Talk to me. Please.”
And that was when the dam broke.
You told him everything — about the comments, the small jabs, the way your parents had managed to reopen wounds you thought were healed.
You told him about the fear creeping in, how you’d started second-guessing the body you’d learned to love, the career you were proud of, the face you saw in the mirror.
“I fought so hard to feel okay again,” you whispered. “And now I feel like I’m back at square one.”
Buck shook his head and pulled you into his arms, cradling your head against his chest like he could shield you from it all.
“You’re not back at square one,” he said.
“You’re not that person anymore. You’re stronger now. But even strong people break a little when the right people push the wrong buttons.”
You let yourself sink into him, into the warmth, into the truth of his words.
“They don’t get to take this from you,” Buck said, voice low.
“Not your peace. Not your joy. Not the life you built for yourself. Because you built it with your own hands. You didn’t wait for anyone’s permission — not theirs, not mine, not anyone’s.”
You nodded into his chest, your tears soaking the fabric.
And he held you, quietly and completely, until the shaking stopped.
From up here, at the firehouse rooftop, the hum of L.A. traffic was just white noise — distant, forgettable.
You were wrapped in Buck’s arms, your head resting against his chest, his hoodie warm against your cheek.
The call earlier had shaken you a bit — not because of the trauma or the chaos, but because you'd caught your own reflection in the fire truck window, and for a second, all you saw was her.
Your mother’s voice echoing in your ears: you’d look so much prettier if you just fixed your posture.
You thought maybe saying it out loud would break the spell. So you did.
And Buck just… listened.
Now, he shifted, his hand gently stroking your back, voice low and steady.
“You know,” he began, “I spent a long time trying to be what my parents needed.”
You blinked up at him, and he was staring out at the skyline — not avoiding you, just thinking. Peeling open old scars.
“I was the ‘fix-it’ kid. If something was wrong, I’d jump in. Be the distraction, the helper, the good one.” He let out a short, mirthless laugh.
“Didn’t matter how much I gave. It was never enough.”
You watched him carefully, feeling your chest ache for the boy he once was.
“They didn’t see me, not really. Not until Maddie left, and even then… it was like I only existed through what I could do for them. Not who I actually was.”
His voice softened, eyes flicking back to yours.
“You’re not alone in this.”
Tears threatened again, but you bit them back.
“I thought they changed,” you whispered. “I thought maybe… maybe if I let them in, they’d see me now — the real me. Not the one they wanted me to be.”
Buck nodded.
“That hope? I know it too well. But Y/N… healing isn’t about letting the people who broke you walk back in just because they might be better now.”
He took your hand, threading his fingers through yours.
“You don’t owe them another piece of yourself. Not after everything you’ve done to become you.”
You looked at him, really looked — and saw not just the man who loved you, but the one who had clawed his way out of the same kind of shadow.
“The 118 — Hen, Chim, Bobby, Eddie… they see you,” he continued. “They respect you. They love you. Hell, I love you.”
You let out a shaky breath, and Buck cupped your cheek with his free hand.
“You built a life from the ground up. You stood in fire and didn’t flinch. If your parents can’t see that? That’s not on you.”
Silence settled around you again, the kind that didn’t need filling.
And for the first time in weeks, your shoulders relaxed.
Because Buck was right.
Your family wasn’t something you were born into. It was something you chose.
And the 118 — this loud, messy, brave, wonderful crew — had chosen you back.
Every single time.
It was their last night in L.A.
You sat across the dinner table from your parents in a sleek West Hollywood restaurant — the kind they would’ve approved of, with overpriced salads and polished silverware.
You’d even worn something nice, soft makeup, hair tucked back just the way your mother always said looked “less messy.”
And yet, nothing you did ever seemed to be enough.
They were smiling — that brittle, curated smile they wore in public. They made small talk about your “little job” and asked again if you'd considered going back to school, becoming a doctor like you “originally said you would” when you were fifteen.
You tried to laugh it off, to steer the conversation away.
But then came the line.
Your mother, wine glass in hand, leaned across the table with a too-sweet smile and said,
“You’re too beautiful to hide behind that uniform forever, sweetheart. You could be something more — if you just tried.”
That was the final crack.
Your chest tightened, your fingers clenched around your water glass, and all the work — all the healing, the therapy, the hours at Station 118 saving lives and rebuilding your confidence — it all teetered on a ledge.
“Do you even hear yourselves?” you said, quietly at first.
Your father looked up, startled. Your mother blinked, taken aback.
“I’ve been doing everything I can to build a life — my life — and all you see is who I’m not.”
Your voice wavered, but you didn’t stop.
“You wanted me to be a doctor. Or a businesswoman. You hated that I loved art, that I found purpose in helping people. You hated the way I looked, dressed, existed. And now, you come to L.A. for three days and want to shape me all over again?”
Silence fell over the table.
“I’m not going to dinner with you again,” you said.
“This… is the last one.”
Your mother’s mouth opened to object, but you were already rising to your feet, grabbing your coat.
“I have a family. A real one. One that sees me. I’m not throwing that away just to be palatable to you.”
And then you called an Uber, knowing your parents would take your car anyway because that’s how much they disrespected you.
You didn’t cry until you reached Buck’s apartment.
He didn’t ask any questions. He just opened the door, took one look at your face, and pulled you into his arms.
You sobbed into his hoodie, fists clinging to the fabric, your knees nearly buckling with the weight of years of resentment and grief. He held you through it — no words, no pressure.
Just presence. Just Buck. Your Buck.
Eventually, you ended up outside — sitting in the back of his jeep at the beach, wrapped in one of his flannel shirts, your head leaning on his shoulder as the night breeze swept around you.
Your voice was hoarse when you finally spoke.
“I’ve spent so long trying to be who they wanted. I didn’t realize I’ve already become someone I’m proud of.”
Buck turned his head toward you, his fingers lacing with yours.
“I’ve always been proud of you,” he said, with that soft kind of certainty only Buck had when it really mattered.
“Even when you didn’t see it. Even when you were still hiding parts of yourself.”
You sniffled, leaning into him more.
“They were supposed to love me unconditionally.”
“They didn’t,” Buck said gently. “But we do.”
The next morning at the firehouse, you told Bobby everything.
You expected a lecture, maybe a reminder to show grace — but instead, Bobby reached out and placed a steady hand on your shoulder.
“Family doesn’t come with conditions. You’re one of us. And we’re not going anywhere.”
Hen brought you coffee. Chim cracked a terrible joke that made you laugh through your puffy eyes. Eddie gave you that silent nod of solidarity he only reserved for moments that mattered. Ravi slipped you a cookie from the pantry with a wink.
summary: you grew up next door to the buckley’s, and despite being the same age as evan, you didn’t meet him until you were both 16 and you invited him into your house when he got locked out of his own late one night. it becomes a regular thing; him sneaking into your bedroom every night, because to him, anywhere is better than that house.
word count: 3.7k
series masterlist
a/n: i am finally posting yay!! this could possibly be a new series, i’m not really sure yet. i don’t have any of it mapped out or anything, but this is an idea that i thought i’d post and see what y’all think. i kept it platonic because the characters are teenagers in this part, but it would be friends to lovers, with the next part picking up around the time of season one. anyway, please let me know if it’s something you’d be interested in!!<3
warnings: none, teenage!reader + teenage!buck (platonic), no use of y/n, fem!reader, plus size!reader, race inclusive!reader
You think you see him everywhere. The face of the boy that you used to spend so many nights with. It’s never him, though, you know that for sure, because you haven’t seen him in almost ten years. And you’re sure that he still doesn’t have that same baby face that used to have girls swooning. Yourself included, although you’d never tell anyone that.
You fell out of touch when you both left Pennsylvania. As much as you didn’t want to leave him, you couldn’t turn down your dream of studying in your dream field, especially when the opportunity was at UCLA.
You wanted to keep in touch, but as the weeks went by, it felt more and more weird to reach out. You thought that he had probably forgotten all about you now that you weren’t right next door.
You were around five or six when you saw him for the first time; you knew there was a boy around your age living next door, but you never spoke to him. Your parents weren’t friends, so you never really had any reason to interact with each other.
You’d heard of him, of course, he was your next-door neighbour, and you weren’t a stranger to seeing him outside on his bike, or his skateboard, or climbing trees and getting hurt. You also weren’t a stranger to hearing the yelling coming from his house when his parents were home; it always seemed to be aimed at him, and although it never seemed to really bother him, you’re sure that it did.
It wasn’t until you were sixteen that you had actually met him.
It was late at night when you saw him trying to sneak back into his house through his bedroom window, but evidently, when he left through the front door earlier that night, he had forgotten to make sure he unlocked his bedroom window.
He could see the dull flicker of light coming from the living room and knew that his father was on the couch watching tv, as he quite often does when he can’t sleep, and knew that there was no way he could come back in through the front door.
He stood at the side of his house with his hands on his hips, mentally going over every single one of his, most likely dangerous, options; not that he cared if it meant not getting caught, when you opened your own bedroom window. He seemed harmless enough, and you didn’t want him to have to sleep outside, or be on the receiving end of another yelled lecture by his father.
It was probably a stupid idea if you were to think about it today; inviting a teenage boy into your room that you hardly knew while your parents slept in the next room, but you didn’t care. You didn’t want him to be uncomfortable, or get into further trouble with his parents, not when you could help it.
“Hey!” you whisper-yelled, your voice cutting through the quiet spring air and reaching Evan’s ears. He turned quickly, squinting and looking around until he saw you, illuminated by the lamp from your bedside table, and he raised a hand in an awkward wave.
You beckoned him over with a hand, and he crossed the lawn and was at your window in a second, his head tilted curiously to the side while his eyes studied your face. He knew who you were; your name, who your family was, but you had different friend groups, so your paths never crossed enough for him to learn any more. You had the upper hand in that regard; you knew his family, and who his friends were, and the fact that he was the football star at your school, but you were relatively invisible every day at school. Most of all to people like him.
“Locked out?” you ask with a soft smile as he leaned against the side of your house. He took a split second to let his eyes trail down your body, and then his eyes were back on your face. He’d never really looked at you, but right now, he found you pretty. You had a soft figure, and the warm light of your lamp made your plump cheeks and your kind eyes even more beautiful to him. At that moment, he wondered why he had never noticed you at school.
“The one part of my plan that I didn’t think through,” he said with a shrug. He was smiling at his own stupidity, but you could tell that he was slightly embarrassed, too.
Without another word, you stood back up straight and took a few steps back, allowing him enough room to get in through your window.
“You can sleep here tonight; go back early when he’s gone back to bed,” you told him, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to both shield yourself from the cool breeze coming in through the window, and to somehow make yourself look smaller. He’s on the football team, for god’s sake, you’re half sure that he’ll make up some excuse because you’re not one of the girls that anyone in his friend group seems to go for. Not that you were offering him anything more than the floor of your room and a pillow. But, still.
He looked at you like you’ve just said the most outlandish thing for a moment, his eyes still working to learn as much about you as he can as you stand there expectantly. Your crossed arms make it look like you’re angry with him, but there was also a gentleness in your eyes; it looks like you want to help him, so, finally, he climbed in through your window.
He almost toppled over on the way, his back foot catching on the window sill, but then he steadied himself, rose up to his full height and looked down at you.
He was taller than he looked from afar, and for a second, your eyes widened in surprise, but then you took a step back and turned to grab a pillow and blanket from your bed. Despite his brow raised in confusion, he took the pillow and blanket from your outstretched hands, his feet glued to the floor as he waited for your lead.
“What, are you gonna take the bed and make me sleep on the floor?” you asked sarcastically, a smile making its way onto your face as it finally dawned on him. Of course he wasn’t going to sleep in your bed with you. That would be weird.
You settled back into your bed while he took his shoes and hoodie off and then set up his pillow and blanket. When you saw how uncomfortable he looked, you sighed and threw the rest of your blankets at him, telling him to layer them under him so he’s not just sleeping on your carpet.
He did so without a word, and when you’re both finally settled, you turned off your lamp and let darkness surround you.
It helped to lessen the tension, at least, not that you were tired anymore. But all you could hear is your own breathing as you try not to focus on the boy laying on your floor. You’re not sure what came over you when you invited him in, but when you think about the yelling you’d no doubt hear if his parents found him trying to sneak in, and the reckless thing he’d decide to do that was sure to follow, you’re glad that you did. At least now you know that he’s safe, although you’re not sure why you care so much.
“Where do you go?” you asked softly after a few minutes of silence, Evan’s breathing being an indicator that he also wasn’t asleep yet.
“What?” he replied in a whisper, just barely able to hear your voice through the volume of his own thoughts. His eyes were travelling around your room, taking in all of your knick knacks and photos using the shred of light shining in from the street lamps lining the road outside your window.
“You sneak out a lot. Where do you go?” you clarified. He shrugged as he let out a long sigh, and then when he remembered that you can’t see him, he answered.
“Anywhere else. Sometimes I go to my friend's house. Sometimes I just walk around.” Your heart clenches in your chest at the idea of him walking around town in the middle of the night because his home, the place he’s supposed to be the most at ease, is so terrible.
“Why?” you heard yourself ask before you could stop the word from slipping out. You knew that it technically wasn’t your business, but you couldn’t help but be curious. You’d met his parents briefly, and nothing obvious stuck out to you that would make them so bad. They were teachers.
“Anything is better than that house,” he replied simply, his eyes frozen on the ceiling and his face lacking any emotion.
Your frown deepened, and you sat up on one of your elbows, then leaned over just enough so that you could see the outline of Evan’s face on your floor.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, and you could make out the movement of his eyes with what little light filters in from the street lights. His gaze met yours, and he shrugged again, although he felt his chest warm with the idea that you cared about him, even a little bit.
“It’s not your fault.”
You tilted your head to the side, your eyes softening further while your mouth hung open slightly as you tried to find the right words.
“I know, but-” you began, then sighed, shaking your head, “I’m sorry.” No other words felt right for the situation. It’s not like you could push any further; he didn’t seem to want to explain anything to you, so you left it at that. Because you were sorry. From what you’ve seen, he seemed like a good guy, and your chest felt tight as you thought about him having troubles at home so bad that they led to him having to sleep on a stranger's floor.
“Thanks,” he whispered after a moment, giving you a soft smile. He liked how you made him feel, and he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel safe in there with you, even if he was on the floor. He wondered if that was what it felt like to have people who actually care for you all the time, not just when you hurt yourself.
“Good night,” you whispered, returning the smile before laying back down.
“Good night.”
“Evan, you can’t keep breaking bones. Pretty soon you won’t be able to sneak out of your house and climb through my window,” you said with a quiet laugh when you saw the cast on his arm.
He’d been sneaking into your house for months, and while you weren’t actually mad at him, you wished that he would take better care of himself. You found a friend in him, as infuriating as he was sometimes, and you didn’t want to not hang out with him for a few weeks just because he did something stupid and got himself hurt.
You rolled your eyes when the somewhat defeated expression crossed his face and he gave you a shrug, and all you could do was shake your head.
“Why can’t you just let me in through the front door?” he asked, his lips turning into a playful pout.
“Because, my dad would kill you if he knew you were here,” you began with a raised brow, giving him a knowing look, “and I know you. You couldn’t be quiet even if your life depended on it.”
He laughed at your words, and raised a hand to rub at the back of his neck, then shrugged again, looking past you and into your room.
“Yeah, okay. Whatever. Let me in.”
You stepped to the side and let him climb through your window, his actions a little awkward with one unusable arm, but once he was in, he instantly felt better. And you did, too. He always felt so calm in your room, your four pale blue walls allowing him to feel a type of safety and love that he’d never felt under his parent’s roof before. Especially with his sister gone to Boston. Your presence helped, too, but he wasn’t ready to think about that. For all he knew, you were just being nice to him because you felt bad for him.
You both slept in your bed that night; you didn’t want to make him sleep on the floor with his broken arm, and you weren’t about to sleep on the floor, either.
You both laid on your sides facing each other, talking and laughing until sunrise, and although you regretted it a little bit when you had to go to school the next day without sleeping at all that night, you and Evan seemed closer after that.
He slept in your bed almost every night, which caused some fights when he rolled onto your side in the middle of the night and stole all of your blankets, but they were quickly forgotten in the morning when he snuck back out of your window and went back to his house. You enjoyed having him at your house so often, even if you barely interacted at school.
You had different friend groups, and it seemed weird to see each other outside of your bedroom, so neither of you ever bothered to try to interact at school. It made your friendship seem more special, anyway; it was something that was only for you two. Your conversations and the secrets you shared would never be heard by anyone else because you two were the only ones awake at two in the morning to hear them.
“I’m going to UCLA,” you whispered late one night, the only sound in your room being the soft sound of crickets coming in through your cracked window and you and Evan’s breathing as you lay facing each other in your bed.
“You’re what? Why?” he replied, sitting up on his elbow and looking down at you with furrowed brows. You furrowed your brows as well, sitting up and looking at him with a confused expression.
“Because we’re graduating in a couple months. I got into the program I told you about. It’s at UCLA,” you explained as if it was obvious, because for you, it was. That was always the plan, and he knew that.
“Oh, right. Congrats.” It was as if he deflated when he processed your words, sitting up beside you. Of course you were going to college. He just spent so long hoping that, for some reason, things would stay the same forever, that he had actually started to believe it.
“Thanks,” you replied, sitting up beside him and studying him as he looked down at his hands and fidgeted with them in his lap, “have you been to California?”
“Me? No- no, I haven’t,” he said quietly, keeping his eyes down. He couldn’t look at you. He was afraid that if he saw the sadness in his eyes, he’d have to talk about it, or worse, that you wouldn’t care. And he couldn’t handle the thought of you not caring about him as much as he thought you did.
“I’ve heard it gets, like, really hot in the summer there, way hotter than here. But I guess it’ll be okay if they don’t get snow in the winter,” you said, trying to lighten the mood as Evan lays back down beside you, now staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head.
“Yeah. Yeah. That’s good,” he replied, although you could immediately see that he hadn’t registered a single thing that you had said.
“Evan?” you urged, leaning your head forward slightly in hopes of getting him to actually look at you.
“What?” He blinked quickly, taking any emotion out of his face. He tried not to think about not being able to see you. Not being able to spend time with you like this. It hurt.
“Are you okay?” you asked softly, your eyes full of guilt, and he hated it. It dawned on him then that he didn’t want to hold you back, as much as it sucked for him. He knew how important this was to you, and he didn’t want to make it all about him.
“I’m fine. All good,” he reassured you, clearing his throat as he shrugged your concern away. He tried to smile, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he kept his voice void of any emotion.
“You don’t seem fine. What’s going on?” you pressed as you noticed the way his brows furrowed just slightly. The good thing about being so close to him most nights is that you grew good at reading every little expression. That, and you learned that he’s never been that good at hiding his emotions, either way.
“It’ll just be weird not having you here,” he said simply, shrugging again.
Your heart clenched in your chest as he tried to brush the conversation off. You didn’t think he’d be this upset about it, and a small part of you wanted to tell him that you’d stay. For him. One of the only things holding you back here was him, and even though you knew it wouldn’t necessarily make a difference in your decision to leave other than making it harder, you wanted him to beg you to stay. To show you how much he cared.
“Well, aren’t you going to college, too?” you asked. Maybe if you talked about his plans, he’ll get excited too.
“Yeah, community college. 20 minutes away,” he said with a huff, rolling his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I just thought that with your parents, you’d-” you began, your lips turning down into a frown.
“Don’t apologize. I’m happy for you. I know how much you wanted to get into that program,” he tried to backtrack, shaking his head and looking back over at you, still sitting up beside him. He was happy for you, he really was, and he didn’t want to ruin things for you just because he’s an idiot.
“I did,” you said after a moment, looking deeply into his eyes, trying to show that you were upset about leaving him, too.
“I knew you would,” he said, finally giving you a small smile. You smiled back, nodding once before laying down and getting comfortable in your bed again.
Just like that, things were good between you two again. If you were leaving at the end of summer, you might as well enjoy the rest of these nights without fighting or thinking about it too hard.
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” you whispered late one night. Evan was right beside you, like always when it’s so late, but there was a heavy feeling in the air that neither of you had addressed yet.
“I know,” he whispered back, turning onto his side to face you. It had been on his mind all night, and for most of the week, but he didn’t want to talk about it.
“You can always come visit me. There’s lots of schools in California,” you said, trying to keep your voice light, but you knew that he could hear the sadness behind your words.
“I’m already enrolled here. I can’t just leave,” he told you, and you sighed, nodding once.
“I know,” you replied, unsure of what else to say.
“Will you ever come back here?” he asked after a moment of silence, his eyes big and hopeful as he took in your features in the near-darkness of your room.
“For holidays and stuff,” you said with a shrug. You could feel the lump in your throat growing as you looked into his sad eyes, and the way his lips turned down into a slight frown despite him trying to fight it.
“No, like, live here again,” he clarified, and all you could do was shrug again. You hadn’t even thought about it. All you could think about was the next four years of your life in UCLA, and all the hours you’d no doubt have to put in at the library, studying.
“I don’t know. I’ve never lived anywhere else,” you said after a moment. You were about to speak again when he cut you off, catching you off guard.
“I hope you don’t come back,” you furrowed your brows, confused by his sudden switch up, “You’re finally out. You shouldn’t ever come back. I wish I could get out.”
Your eyes softened, and finally, a tear fell down your cheek, but you quickly wiped it away before he could see it. You felt guilt eating at you, and for a split second, you thought about skipping out on UCLA. Staying here with him. He had slowly told you more about his home life; how his parents were there but not really there, how they yelled at him for any little thing, how the only thing holding him together was his sister, until she left. You didn’t want to leave him, too, but you weren’t sure what else to do.
“You can. What’s holding you here?” you finally asked, trying to keep your voice steady as the pit in your stomach grew.
“Nothing.” Not anymore, he thought. He didn’t know what he was going to do when you left, but he still had you there tonight, so he didn’t want to spend another minute talking about tomorrow.
So, you both let the silence envelope you until you finally fell asleep, finding what little comfort you could in the fact that for the night, you were both still under the same roof.
next chapter
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This event will take place for the entirety of April with three prompts per week.
Rules:
You can do as many or as little of the prompts as you like. Try to keep posting in the week of the prompt but fics/art posted after is still welcome!
Bucktommy should be the primary pairing but others are allowed as long as they’re tagged! Rating can be of any kind and all warnings are allowed so long as they are tagged appropriately!
Works can be of any kind: art, fic, edits etc
Please tag @bucktommyaupril2026 and use #bucktommyaupril2026
Prompts:
Week 1: 1st-5th
Mafia AU
Soulmates AU
High School/College AU
Week 2: 6th-12th
One of them isn't a firefighter
Shifter/Hybrid AU
Sugar Daddy AU
Week 3: 13th-19th
Classification/Designation AU (CG/L, D/S, A/B/O etc)
Vigilante AU
Supernatural AU
Week 4: 20th-26th
Coffee/Book shop AU
Omegaverse AU
Magic AU
Week 5: 27th-30th
Royalty AU
Gender bent AU
Celebrity AU
Prompts can be interpreted however you like, for example, high school AU could be teachers. There can be platonic elements. As long as the main pairing is buck/tommy.
Note: you can add fics on ao3 to the collection when posting add to BuckTommy AUpril 2026 💙
