What We Hold (Evan Buckley) ˚˖° ୭🎐˚｡ ꒷
“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.
And Buck?
Buck just stood beside you, hand in yours.
No longer your anchor.
Now your entire world.
© fordiaz 25’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.
