The Archer (Evan Buckley) ࣪ 🏹°࿐ ࣪ ᳝۰ ◝
“We’ve both been afraid of losing the things that matter. But maybe this time, we don’t have to.” જ⁀➴
Synopsis: Evan Buckley has always feared people leaving — but the 118 never did. When a new paramedic joins the team, Buck is forced to confront the version of himself he’s tried to outrun. Through quiet moments, late-night calls, and unexpected vulnerability, he learns that maybe, just maybe, love doesn’t have to hurt to be real.
Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Slow Burn
AU: None
Pairing: Evan Buckley x Afab!Paramedic!Reader
Warnings: Mentions of injuries the usual stuff in 911 episodes, calls and emergencies.
Note: Another fic yet again because these things are literally sitting in my google docs waiting to breathe new life. Thank God for my hyper fixation on this show (I’m still on S6) that I’m putting out fics like a machine. Anyways, if you guys enjoyed don’t forget to like + reblog and leave any comments because they are very much appreciated! Happy reading!
Evan Buckley lived in extremes.
He always had. From the moment he showed up at the 118 — too young, too fast, too much — he’d chased every call like it owed him something. Like if he just ran hard enough, climbed high enough, saved enough, he could outrun the feeling gnawing at his ribs.
He didn’t name it back then.
Didn’t need to.
Because naming it meant slowing down. Meant looking it in the face and admitting that he wasn’t just chasing danger — he was chasing worth.
The job gave him purpose. The team gave him structure. And for a while, that was enough.
Until it wasn’t.
Because when you’re the guy who runs into burning buildings with a smile on your face, people stop asking if you’re the one burning.
He became a legend fast — not in the medals or accolades kind of way, but in whispers around the department.
That’s Buck. He pulled a kid out of a collapsing house. He scaled five stories without ropes once. Total maniac. He hooked up with two EMTs in one weekend.
They weren’t wrong.
Buck didn’t care what people said, as long as they were saying something. Being talked about was better than being forgotten.
And under the bravado, the recklessness, the charm — there was a boy who had been left too many times. By his parents. His sister. Abby. The world.
So he made sure no one could ignore him.
He was the guy who dove headfirst into every call, heart first into every mistake. He was loud. Sloppy, sometimes. He was the kind of brave that bordered on foolish.
Bobby saw it. Hen saw it. Chim tried to buffer him, joke around him, nudge him back into place.
But Buck? Buck was barely holding himself together.
He wasn’t malicious. Just restless. Hungry for connection, for the kind of safety he didn’t believe he deserved. Which is why, when Abby Clarke walked into his life, he latched on with both hands and no helmet.
She was older. Calmer. She saw through the noise and offered him something still. Something quiet.
And he clung to it.
He thought this is it — someone who stays.
Until she didn’t.
And when she left, she didn’t just take her suitcase. She took whatever fragile progress Buck had made believing he was enough for someone to stay for.
He spiraled.
Hard.
Sleeping around. Ghosting shifts. Picking fights with Chim. Pushing Bobby’s patience to its limit. He got suspended. Almost fired. And still, he kept running — from something, toward nothing.
And then he hit a wall.
Not a physical one. But one only he could feel — the kind that comes when the thrill stops numbing the ache.
That’s when Bobby finally sat him down. Really sat him down. No raised voice. No threats. Just a soft, quiet: “Are you done trying to destroy yourself?”
Buck hadn’t answered.
Not that day.
But something shifted.
He started showing up differently. Stayed sober on his days off. Came early. Took care of the new guy, Ravi. Listened more. Talked less. Learned to shut his mouth before the sarcasm slipped out and hurt someone.
It was slow. Uneven. There were backslides.
Nights where he stared at his ceiling wondering if there was anything left for him outside the job. But then came the little wins — Bobby trusting him with a delicate rescue. Hen letting him lead a training. Chim actually saying, “Proud of you, man.”
They were quiet victories.
The kind that didn’t need sirens or spotlights.
And Buck started to realize: maybe being seen didn’t have to mean being loud. Maybe it could mean being real.
And in that stillness, that liminal space between healing and hurt, something — someone — would soon arrive.
But not yet.
Not today.
Today, Buck walked into the firehouse with a steady gait and a thermos of coffee in his hand. He wasn’t running anymore.
He wasn’t fixed. But he was trying.
And as he stepped into the kitchen and spotted Ravi talking to someone new — a face he didn’t recognize yet — he tilted his head, curiosity piqued.
Not because of interest.
But because these days, he paid attention.
Because he knew better than anyone: everyone walks in with a story.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you find someone who stays for yours.
The firehouse kitchen smelled like garlic bread and grilled chicken — Bobby’s signature meal for easing new recruits into the fold.
A little comfort food, a lot of subtle observation. It was tradition by now. Buck had seen it play out a dozen times. But tonight, something felt different.
“Alright, everyone,” Bobby called out, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“We’ve got a new member joining us on rotation. Paramedic. Transferred from Station 136. Came highly recommended — and yes, she’s already survived the paperwork.”
That got a few chuckles.
Buck leaned back in his chair, sipping a beer, eyes fixed on the table — until he heard footsteps and glanced up.
You walked in with quiet confidence, your expression open but unreadable. You gave Chim a nod, bumped fists with Ravi, even managed to coax a small smile out of Eddie. But when your eyes met Buck’s, something sharpened in your gaze.
“Evan Buckley,” you said, stepping forward before Bobby could do the honors. “The man. The myth. The sex swing incident.”
Hen choked on her water.
Buck blinked. “Seriously? That’s still going around?”
“I mean, you got stuck mid-rescue,” you said, grinning. “It’s basically required reading in paramedic group chats.”
“I was saving a guy’s life—”
“While tangled in a very specific apparatus,” Hen added, laughing now. “Classic Buck.”
“Right,” Buck muttered, but he was smiling too as he stood to shake your hand. “Well, glad I could make an impression.”
“Hard not to,” you replied smoothly.
Bobby motioned toward the food. “Grab a plate. Get comfortable. You’re family now.”
You slid into the seat between Buck and Hen — the one always left open for new blood. Buck noticed the ease in your posture, the way you listened when Chim talked about his daughter, how you laughed — really laughed — at one of Ravi’s sarcastic remarks.
You were tuned in. Not trying to dominate the room, just present in a way that made people want to open up.
Hen leaned closer. “So, three years at 136, right?”
“Yup. Two of those mostly on medical calls. Rotated through some tough wildfire seasons last year. Decided I wanted something steadier. A tighter-knit crew.”
Buck tilted his head. “And you think this place is steady?”
You looked at him with a smirk. “Steady’s relative. But I’ve got a good gut.”
Hen raised her glass. “To instincts. You’re gonna fit right in.”
Buck didn’t say much after that. Just observed.
The way you leaned toward Hen when she spoke. The way you passed the salad bowl without anyone asking. The calm energy you brought into the chaos.
And for a guy like Buck — whose life had often felt like a long string of misfires — that calm made him want to stay just a little longer in your orbit.
Later, when you excused yourself to help Bobby in the kitchen, Hen elbowed him. “She’s good.”
“Yeah,” Buck muttered, still watching the doorway you disappeared through. “She really is.”
Something in him stirred — something that hadn’t moved in a long time.
But for now, he kept it buried. One shift at a time.
The sirens wailed as the 118 raced through downtown. Dispatch had flagged it as a ‘multi-casualty trauma,’ and the pit in Buck’s stomach tightened the closer they got.
It was a three-car collision on a bridge, with reports of people trapped, including a child in critical condition. The kind of call that didn’t just test your skills — it tested your nerve.
“Chim, Buck — you’re with me on extractions. Eddie, Y/N, you handle triage,” Bobby directed as the truck rolled to a stop with a hiss of brakes.
Without missing a beat, you grabbed your trauma bag and jumped out of the rig, sprinting alongside Eddie toward the first wrecked vehicle.
Buck watched you go, momentarily caught off guard by the way you moved — focused, fast, in full command of your role.
He didn’t even realize he was smiling until Chim gave him a look. “You gonna stand there or you wanna keep up?”
“Right, yeah,” Buck muttered, snapping into motion.
The scene was chaos. Glass shimmered on the pavement like ice. A woman screamed from one of the cars, her leg pinned beneath the dashboard. A toddler wailed in the backseat. And that was just one of the three vehicles.
Buck was elbow-deep in a door panel when he heard you over the comms.
“Victim 1 has a head wound and possible spinal trauma. Stabilizing now.”
You were crouched beside a man whose forehead was bleeding profusely, calmly applying a C-collar and giving directions to a bystander to help brace him.
It wasn’t just that you knew what to do — it was the way you spoke. Direct, grounding. People listened.
“Y/N, I need a hand over here!” Chim called out from the middle car.
“On it!” You tossed a pair of gloves to the bystander and dashed over.
Buck watched as you assessed a woman’s irregular breathing and slipped a hand behind her neck like you’d done it a thousand times.
You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t rattle. You just moved.
Even Eddie glanced up from where he was wrapping a boy’s arm in gauze and muttered to himself, “Damn. She’s good.”
By the time all victims were stabilized and en route to the hospital, Buck stood near the rig, helmet tucked under his arm, adrenaline buzzing.
You walked over, brushing dust off your sleeves. “You alright?”
“Me? I’m good,” Buck said. “But you—wow. That was incredible. The way you handled the head trauma guy, and that kid who was hyperventilating?”
You shrugged, modest but glowing from the rush. “You do this job long enough, you learn how to find your footing in the chaos.”
Buck stared at you for a second longer than necessary.
“Yeah, but not everyone makes it look that easy.”
Chim joined them, clapping you on the back. “If you keep pulling moves like that, I’m not gonna let Hen take you next shift.”
“Too late,” Eddie said as he came up, peeling off his gloves. “I’m already requesting her.”
You rolled your eyes, but Buck could see the smile tugging at your lips.
Bobby walked over last, clipboard in hand. “Good work, all of you. Y/N, you’re proving to be everything your record said and more.”
“Thanks, Cap,” you said, wiping sweat from your brow.
As the team packed up and got back into the rig, Buck slid into the seat beside you.
“You’re full of surprises,” he said quietly.
You turned to him, brow arched. “Good ones, I hope?”
“The best kind,” he said.
And he meant it.
It was just after sunrise when the 118 pulled back into the station. The adrenaline from the bridge call had faded, replaced by the familiar ache of fatigue and the hum of relief.
The B shift crew was already filtering in — exchanging nods, half-sleepy greetings, and fresh cups of coffee.
Buck scrubbed a hand through his messy curls as he slid off his turnout coat, tossing it into his locker.
You were at the sink in the kitchen, rinsing your hands and scrubbing away the grime of the last twelve hours. Hen passed you a towel and a warm smile as she grabbed her keys.
“You did good today, Y/N,” she said. “For what it’s worth — not many people impress Buck.”
Buck looked up from his locker with a faint scoff. “I’m not that hard to impress.”
“Yes, you are,” Chim and Eddie said in unison as they passed by, drawing a light chuckle from you.
Buck shot them both a look before wandering over to the kitchen. You were drying your hands, your sleeves rolled up, a few strands of hair escaping your bun.
“Hey,” Buck said, leaning a little against the counter. “Shift’s done. You got plans this morning?”
You looked up, curious. “Besides sleeping for five hours and eating my weight in leftover pasta? Not really.”
Buck smiled. “Well… I was thinking coffee. There’s this spot a few blocks down — open early, quiet, and they actually know how to make a flat white. If you’re into that.”
You blinked — surprised, but not unpleasantly. “You offering me caffeine, Buckley?”
“Maybe,” he said, his grin boyish, almost shy.
“Or maybe I’m trying to hang out with the paramedic who saved three people in record time this morning and made Eddie Diaz speechless for a whole twenty seconds.”
You let out a small laugh, reaching for your jacket. “Alright. Coffee sounds good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “But you’re buying. Hero tax.”
Buck chuckled, holding the door open for you as you both stepped out into the golden, sleepy haze of early morning.
“Deal.”
From the window, Eddie watched the two of you walk off together, shaking his head with a knowing smile. Hen stepped beside him, coffee in hand.
“Told you he’d crack first,” she said.
Eddie hummed. “Yeah, but for once… it’s not just a flirt.”
Hen sipped her drink. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t mess it up.”
The thing no one told you about being a firefighter wasn’t how loud the job could get.
It was the silence after.
The silence when the sirens faded, and the blood was cleaned from your gloves, and the screams stopped echoing in your ears.
That was when the weight crept in — not just from the job, but from who you carried it for.
You had learned early in life not to hold on too tightly. Nothing ever really stayed — not your childhood house, not the friends you thought were forever, not even the people who promised they wouldn’t leave.
Change had always arrived like a storm: without warning, without apology.
So you adapted.
You moved light. You didn’t ask for permanence. You didn’t get too attached.
But then you found the 118.
And somewhere along the line, they became the one place you didn’t have to flinch.
Buck had started as a ripple.
That first coffee turned into a second, then into breakfast runs, then into small moments: him helping you hose down the rig after a muddy call, saving you the last protein bar in the kitchen, walking just a step behind you on every building search like he was quietly, instinctively keeping watch.
He didn’t make it loud, but Buck had slipped into your life like he’d always been meant to be there.
And that terrified you.
Because lately, your heart had begun to stutter every time you lost sight of him during a call.
You started counting the seconds he was out of your line of vision. Every loud crash, every “man down” over comms, had you holding your breath before you even realized it.
You weren’t used to caring this much. Not about someone who ran headfirst into fire.
And today’s call — it shook something loose.
A scaffolding collapse. Six construction workers trapped. One rebar impalement. Two amputations. The kind of call that would drain anyone.
Buck had gone up to the second floor, clearing debris to reach a trapped victim. You and Hen had stayed on the ground level, assisting with triage. You’d looked up once to check on him, just in time to see the beam snap above him.
He’d dodged it. Barely.
He’d waved it off afterward with that crooked smile of his, sweat matting his curls. But your heart had dropped so fast you didn’t even register you were shaking until Hen quietly placed a steady hand on your back.
You didn’t let it show.
Not then.
But later that night, long after the rig was clean and the paperwork was filed, you found yourself lingering in the kitchen as the others filtered out.
Bobby was wiping down the counter, Hen sipped her tea at the table, and Chim leaned back in his chair scrolling through photos of Jee-Yun.
You didn’t mean to say it aloud.
But you did.
“I’m scared.”
The room stilled — not with judgment, but with familiarity.
Bobby set the towel down. “About what?”
You hesitated, swallowing. “About caring too much. About getting used to something good… and having it taken away.”
Hen tilted her head, gently. “You mean Buck.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.
Chim set his phone down and leaned forward, more serious now. “Buck has that effect.”
“He’s reckless,” you said softly, voice fraying. “He throws himself into danger without a second thought. He laughs it off and keeps going. I’m just— I’m scared one day he won’t come back.”
“Have you told him?” Bobby asked.
You shook your head. “I don’t want to make it about me.”
Hen stood and crossed the kitchen, resting a warm hand on your shoulder.
“Sweetheart, caring about someone doesn’t make it about you. It makes it real.”
Chim smiled, softer this time. “He probably feels the same way. Buck might be reckless with himself, but he’s not reckless with people he cares about. And trust me — he cares about you.”
You looked up, heart pounding. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Bobby said. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you after every call. Like he’s checking to make sure you made it back.”
Hen nodded. “You don’t have to keep carrying the weight of every fear by yourself. You’ve got us. And you’ve got him — even if neither of you have said it out loud yet.”
The silence returned, but this time it was filled with something warmer. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
“Thanks,” you murmured. “I needed that.”
Chim bumped your shoulder with his. “You’re part of this family now. You don’t get to do things the hard way all the time.”
You laughed, finally. “Noted.”
And when Buck walked into the kitchen a few minutes later — face flushed from a hot shower, curls damp, a curious glance cast your way — you didn’t look away.
Maybe things didn’t always stay.
But maybe some people could.
And maybe, just maybe… he was one of them.
It started small.
You used to sit next to Buck on shift, shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen table, his leg brushing yours whenever you both leaned in for a bite of something Hen made.
Your jokes came fast and easy. He knew the exact creases in your smile, the way your laugh always started in your chest before reaching your eyes.
But lately?
Lately, you’d been somewhere else entirely.
You’d started riding back with Chim and Eddie after calls, hanging back in the rig longer than usual, sometimes even taking your coffee breaks outside, pretending to answer texts.
When you laughed now, it was still warm — still you — but Buck didn’t feel like the reason anymore.
At first, he told himself it was nothing. Maybe just a bad day. A bad week. Burnout.
But now, two weeks deep into the change, he was starting to feel like an outsider in a story he’d once felt lucky to be part of.
Breakfast runs used to be your thing.
It had started after your second call together — a collapsed balcony with two patients and a lot of adrenaline.
Buck had bought you a coffee to calm your nerves and you’d smiled like it meant more than just caffeine. After that, it became ritual. You even had a usual order.
Now?
You didn’t even ask if he was coming.
Buck found you outside the diner that morning, standing by the curb while Eddie laughed at something Chim said through the window.
You were focused on your phone, but your face was too blank for someone reading a meme. You looked… elsewhere. And that scared him more than anything.
“Hey,” he said, approaching slowly. “Got room for one more?”
You looked up, startled. Your smile was polite. Too polite.
“Of course.”
That should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.
He slid into the booth beside you once inside — you didn’t protest, but you didn’t shift closer, either. Chim and Eddie talked around you both, but Buck barely heard any of it. His stomach was too twisted.
And when you offered Eddie a bite of your toast with a soft laugh — the same kind Buck hadn’t heard in days — something inside him snapped quiet.
You both ended up walking out together afterward, coffees in hand, the LA morning sun not yet punishing. He waited until you reached the edge of the lot before breaking the silence.
“You’ve been distant.”
You froze just a little — not fully, but enough for him to notice.
“I’ve been tired,” you replied.
“That’s not what I asked.”
You sighed, brushing hair from your face. “Buck, it’s nothing personal.”
“But it feels personal.”
That made you pause. Really pause. Buck looked at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t have all the pieces for.
“You used to talk to me.”
“I still talk to you.”
“Not like before.”
That quiet hung between you, longer than it should have. Cars rolled by. Somewhere nearby, someone honked. It all faded into background noise.
“I just needed space,” you said finally. “That’s all.”
“From me?” Buck asked, not unkindly — just hurt. And it was that part of him — the aching, raw honesty he only ever let out with people he trusted — that finally cracked through.
You didn’t answer right away. And maybe you didn’t need to.
“Did I do something?” he asked softly. “Or not do something?”
You looked down at your cup. “It’s not about you, Buck. Not completely.”
“Then help me understand.”
You exhaled. Slow. Heavy.
“I care about you. That hasn’t changed,” you said. “But this job… what we do, what we see — I’m trying to protect myself. And lately, I’ve been feeling things I shouldn’t.”
“What kind of things?”
“I worry about you,” you said.
“Every damn call. Every time you take a risk or crack a joke to hide how much you care. I worry because you act like you’re invincible when none of us are.”
Buck blinked. That was the last thing he expected.
“I worry about you all the time too,” he said.
“You think I don’t notice when you zone out after a call? Or when you touch your shoulder like it still hurts from the collapse?”
You looked at him then, and it was the first time in a while you really looked. Buck felt it in his ribs.
“I didn’t mean to shut you out,” you said, voice quieter now. “I just didn’t know how to make room for… this.”
“For what?”
“For how much I care about you.”
That stopped Buck cold.
For a second, he couldn’t speak — which was rare for him. He ran a hand through his hair, swallowed hard.
“I thought I was imagining it,” he admitted. “When you started hanging around Eddie more, I thought… maybe you were just over me.”
“I needed a breather,” you said gently. “And Eddie’s easy to be around when you’re trying not to feel everything at once.”
Buck nodded. He understood that more than you knew.
“I don’t want to be a distraction,” he said finally. “But I don’t want to be out of your life either.”
“You’re not,” you said quickly. “You’re not. I just need to go slow. For my own heart.”
Buck gave you a smile — soft, genuine, a little sad but somehow still hopeful. “I can do slow. I can do anything, really… just not losing you.”
You reached out and touched his wrist, just briefly, but it sent a warmth through both of you.
“You’re not losing me, Buck,” you said. “Just finding me again. In a different way.”
He nodded.
And for the first time in weeks, the silence between you didn’t feel like a wall.
It felt like a bridge.
The shift was slow.
Rare for L.A. — rare for the 118 — but the quiet was almost a welcome reprieve.
The four of them had just wrapped up restocking the rig after a minor call, and Buck found himself sitting on the tailgate with Eddie, nursing a bottle of water and trying not to let his thoughts spiral.
You weren’t on shift today.
And somehow, that made him more aware of your absence than usual.
Eddie glanced at him from the driver’s side. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Buck said automatically — then sighed, tipping his head back toward the sky. “Actually, no. Not really.”
Eddie raised a brow, folding his arms and leaning against the rig. “Wanna talk about it?”
Buck hesitated. “What’s Y/N been saying?”
Eddie blinked. “That’s direct.”
“Yeah, well. I’ve been going in circles in my head for two weeks, so I figured I’d try a straight line for once.”
That earned a short laugh from Eddie. “She’s… she’s been quieter. But not cold. Still herself, just maybe… more internal lately.”
Buck nodded. “She talks to you though.”
“She talks to everyone, Buck. Just not you the same way right now. You know why.”
He did. But hearing it said aloud still stung.
Hen and Chimney appeared around the corner, Hen wiping her hands on a towel while Chim juggled two protein bars and a Gatorade.
“Talking about Y/N?” Chim guessed with zero subtlety.
“Wow. Okay,” Buck muttered.
Hen smiled knowingly. “It’s not hard to tell. You’ve been sulking like a sad golden retriever since the breakfast run.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“Painfully,” Eddie replied.
Hen sat beside Buck and nudged him with her shoulder. “You wanna know what she said the other night?”
Buck’s eyes narrowed. “You’re just gonna tell me?”
“She said she didn’t know what to do with someone who felt permanent.”
That made the words hit like a sucker punch. Buck’s grip on his water bottle tightened.
“She said,” Hen continued, “that for the first time in a long time, she had something that scared her in a good way. And it scared her so much, she didn’t know if it would survive her fear.”
“She meant me?”
“She didn’t say it. But she didn’t have to.”
Buck went quiet.
Chim leaned against the door, eyes thoughtful. “Y/N’s always been calm in the chaos. But when it comes to people she lets in… she’s selective. You got past the filters.”
“I didn’t mean to overwhelm her,” Buck said, voice low.
“You didn’t,” Eddie said. “But you surprised her. That’s different.”
Buck glanced at all of them. “Why does it feel like I’m the only one who didn’t know what was happening until it was too late?”
Hen softened. “Maybe because you’re not used to something being real, Buck. You’re used to the storm, not the quiet after.”
Buck didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Then: “I think I love her.”
The words felt like oxygen and a confession in one breath.
“I didn’t mean to,” he added quickly.
“I just… it crept up on me. Somewhere between the way she remembers everyone’s coffee order and the way she calms people after the worst days of their lives. Somewhere in how she’s always steady, even when she’s falling apart.”
He ran a hand through his hair, eyes wide now that he’d said it aloud. “I think I love her. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
The group went still for a moment — not shocked, but holding the weight of the moment carefully.
“You don’t do anything,” Eddie said, voice quiet and firm.
“Not right away. You be there. You let her come back to you. And when she does, you make sure she knows it’s safe to stay.”
Buck blinked, chest tightening.
“And if she doesn’t?” he asked.
“Then she wasn’t ready,” Hen said. “But I think she is. I just think she’s scared.”
“And you know what it’s like to love someone who’s scared,” Chim added. “So… don’t rush her.”
Buck nodded slowly.
He looked around at the people who had been his constants — even when he hadn’t been his best. People who saw through the ego, the recklessness, the mess.
He’d never imagined the moment of falling in love would come with so much stillness. But now that he’d recognized it… he didn’t want to run from it.
“I’ll wait,” Buck said. “Whatever it takes.”
Eddie patted his shoulder. “Good. Because she’s worth it.”
Buck looked toward the horizon — where the next call, the next shift, the next chance would come.
And somewhere in all that unknown, he hoped you were waiting too.
It was strange, being off shift and still feeling like you were waiting for something to go off — like a bell, a siren, a call that never came.
You hadn’t been sleeping much.
You hadn’t been talking much either.
At least, not to him.
Not since that breakfast run where Buck had looked at you like you were slipping through his fingers and didn’t know how to stop it.
It had been easier, in a way, to talk to Chim, to Hen, even Eddie — because it meant avoiding the one person who made your heart pace harder than a four-alarm call.
But today, you’d needed something softer.
So you texted Maddie.
Mind if I come by? I kinda miss Jeeyun.
Maddie had responded within a minute:
We’d love to see you. She’s teething like a tiny gremlin but I promise we’ll try to make it fun.
Now, you sat curled up on the couch in her apartment, a blanket half-draped across your legs, a drool-stained burp cloth clutched loosely in your hand, and Jeeyun nestled in your lap like a warm, squirming bundle of grounding energy.
“She likes you,” Maddie said softly from the kitchen, mug of tea in hand.
“She’s a baby,” you murmured. “She likes everyone.”
“No,” Maddie said, settling beside you. “She likes you. Not everyone gets that giggle from her.”
Jeeyun babbled loudly, her fingers wrapped around yours.
You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.
Maddie didn’t press. Not at first.
“I’m guessing this visit isn’t just about teething woes and baby cuddles.”
You sighed, brushing a hand down Jeeyun’s back.
“No. I just… I needed quiet. And I needed not to be at the station. Every time I walk in there, I feel like everyone’s waiting for me to say something.”
“About Buck?”
You nodded. “He’s… I don’t know. I don’t know where we stand.”
Maddie watched you carefully.
“Do you want to know what I think?” You glanced at her.
“I texted you, didn’t I?”
She chuckled lightly. “Fair.”
There was a pause, quiet except for Jeeyun’s soft breaths.
“I think my brother can be reckless. Impulsive. Emotionally chaotic. But I’ve never — not once — seen him as focused or consistent as he’s been since you came around.”
You looked away. “He’s… he’s Buck. That scares me.”
“Because you think he’ll mess up?”
“Because I think he won’t. And then I’ll be the one who doesn’t know how to handle it.”
That admission came with a weight you hadn’t expected — a kind of ache you hadn’t named until now. Maddie leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees.
“You’re not the only one who’s scared. Buck doesn’t do vulnerability well, not with feelings like this. But he’s trying. And believe me, I would know.”
You swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be someone he gets tired of. Someone he looks at one day and realizes he wanted something easier.”
“He already had easier,” Maddie said. “And none of it made him feel what he feels now.”
Your eyes burned, but you didn’t cry.
You just looked at the baby in your lap, who cooed and grabbed at your dog tags like she was trying to keep you grounded.
Maddie added gently, “If Buck had to choose between a steady life without you or a chaotic one with you in it, he’d pick the chaos. Every time. I know my brother. And I wouldn’t see him with anyone else.”
That last part — I wouldn’t see him with anyone else — cracked something inside you.
It was one thing to wonder if he felt what you felt. It was another to hear it spoken, with certainty, from someone who knew him best.
You nodded slowly, pressing a kiss to Jeeyun’s hair. “Thanks for letting me come over.”
Maddie smiled. “Anytime. Especially if it helps bring you back to him.”
You didn’t answer.
But you thought about how Buck looked at you like you were something he didn’t want to lose.
And maybe… just maybe… you weren’t ready to lose him either.
There wasn’t a moment he could point to when it began — no grand gesture, no dramatic reconciliation.
But it started, he realized, during a call.
A routine one, even. An apartment fire, thick smoke, elderly couple trapped on the third floor.
Buck was on the hose line, you were searching rooms with Chim, and the second he heard your voice over the comms — calm, clear, certain — something in his chest loosened.
Then, something else happened.
You came back.
Not all at once. But in pieces.
During cleanup, you passed him a water bottle and murmured, “Nice knockdown.” Your eyes met his.
Not too long, not too soft. But you looked, and Buck noticed. Buck felt it.
The next shift, you called out for him during another call — “Buck, left hallway’s clear, I’m heading back out with Hen” — and your voice didn’t sound clipped like it used to.
It was steadier. Almost like… you wanted him to hear it.
He started hearing it more and more.
You began standing a little closer when you briefed with the team. You laughed again — not at him, not because of him — but near him. And it mattered. God, it mattered.
During a high-rise evacuation with B-Shift, you caught his wrist when he was climbing the stairs too fast and simply said, “Don’t push your knee, you’re limping again.”
It wasn’t playful, but it was gentle. The kind of thing you used to say before all the silence.
And Buck held onto it like oxygen.
Hen noticed first.
She leaned into him at the back of the rig as you checked Chim’s minor burn. “You feel that?” she murmured, tilting her head in your direction.
Buck didn’t answer. Just followed the way you were focused on Chim, how your hand moved with practiced ease, how you smiled slightly when Chim made a joke about pain being temporary and dramatic flair being forever.
“She’s softening again,” Hen said quietly. “Good job not screwing it up this time. Yet.”
Buck let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
Later that night, Chim tugged Buck aside while restocking the trauma bags.
“You know she asked about you last shift?”
Buck’s heart thudded. “She did?”
“Yeah. Something about how your wrist was holding up after that fall. Didn’t want to ask directly, I guess.”
Buck couldn’t stop the small smile that crept in.
“She cares,” Chim added. “Still. Maybe more than ever.”
That did something to Buck — not just fill him with hope, but anchor him. Because for the first time in a long time, the thing that had been tearing at him didn’t feel like loss. It felt like a second chance he hadn’t even known he was working toward.
At the next call, he was assigned to your side again.
And when you both cleared the scene, soot-smeared and tired, you nudged his arm lightly with your shoulder.
“Nice teamwork, Buck.” His chest bloomed warm at that.
“Thanks,” he said softly, catching your eyes again. “I missed it.”
There was a pause. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
“Me too,” you said. And it wasn’t nothing.
In fact, it felt like everything.
It was after another long shift.
One of those where your muscles ached in ways you didn’t realize they could, but the adrenaline was still running high.
The sun had barely cracked over the horizon when the 118 rolled back into the station, your silhouettes golden in the dawn.
Buck stretched his back with a groan, watching you unclip your radio with one hand and rub the back of your neck with the other.
He was just about to say something — anything — when you turned to him with that same look you used to wear months ago. The one that came with trust.
“Coffee?” you asked. Then — after a beat — “Breakfast?”
His heart did a quiet somersault.
“Yeah,” he said, voice soft. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
You walked a few blocks in comfortable silence. No teasing. No awkward tension. Just footsteps echoing side by side until you found a small diner tucked on the corner of an empty street.
It wasn’t fancy — red booths, yellow lighting, a faint smell of syrup in the air — but it felt safe.
You picked a booth by the window. Sat across from him. And when the waitress poured coffee into your cups, you stirred in sugar like it was second nature.
For a while, it was easy.
You talked about the calls. About Christopher’s latest obsession with stop-motion animation. About Chim’s plan to prank Ravi again and how Hen was already scheming a counterattack.
And then — mid-bite into your pancake — you set your fork down.
“I used to think nothing in my life stayed,” you said suddenly, eyes on your plate. “Family. Friends. I don’t know, stability just… always felt like it slipped right through.”
Buck blinked. Because it felt like you had just cracked something open in him too.
“But the 118… it stuck,” you continued. “And I guess somewhere along the way, you did too.”
Buck’s throat went dry.
“I know we never said anything outright,” you went on, quieter now. “But I felt it. I know you did too.”
“I did,” Buck said, immediately, almost breathless. “I do.”
The way you looked at him then — hopeful, hesitant — it punched through him like nothing else.
“You scared me,” you admitted. “Not because of who you were, but because I didn’t know if I could handle how much I wanted to stay where you were.”
His heart was racing. He leaned in, hands wrapped around his mug to keep them steady.
“I’ve always been afraid of people leaving,” Buck said, voice low.
“Most of them did. Except the 118. Except you. And I was such a mess when we met — sleeping around, numbing out, pretending like nothing mattered. But you…” He exhaled. “You looked at me like I could still be something good.”
You stared at him for a long moment.
“Because you are,” you said.
Silence stretched between you. Not uncomfortable, but full. Full of everything unsaid that no longer needed to be hidden.
Then, softly, you added, “We’ve both been afraid of losing the things that matter. But maybe this time, we don’t have to.”
Buck felt the weight of it — that promise. That hope.
He reached across the table slowly, gently, letting his fingers brush yours. And you didn’t pull away.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
You smiled — small, but real.
“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m tired of running.”
There wasn’t an announcement.
No dramatic revelation. No secret whispers caught in the locker room. But something shifted.
It started small — the way Buck hovered just a little closer to you after morning roll call.
The way your elbow would brush his when you reached for the same granola bar in the kitchen, and neither of you flinched away anymore. The way you’d grab an extra cup of coffee during breaks without being asked.
Hen noticed first.
Of course she did. She always did.
She didn’t say anything at first — just arched a brow and smirked a little to herself when Buck instinctively grabbed the end of a hose line before you had the chance to haul it alone. She made a bet with Chim the moment she saw you both return from a supply run with that familiar soft flush on your faces.
“Twenty bucks says they’re already halfway in,” Hen muttered, sipping her coffee as you and Buck disappeared around the engine. Chimney blinked after you.
“They’ve been soft with each other lately,” he admitted. “Buck didn’t even try to one-up Eddie on that last rescue. That’s growth.”
“Love’ll do that to you,” Hen said with a grin.
Eddie noticed, too — quietly, in the way only Eddie could. He wasn’t surprised. Not really. He’d seen the way Buck looked at you for months now, even before Buck knew what he was feeling. And he’d seen how you looked back like you were trying not to fall but were already halfway there.
He hadn’t said anything, but the first time Buck helped Christopher adjust his helmet during a family BBQ with you smiling in the background, Eddie knew. And he was happy. Genuinely happy.
Bobby didn’t need to say much either. Just gave Buck a knowing pat on the shoulder one day after a call — the kind of gesture that said, I see it. I trust it. Take care of her.
Even Ravi, the last one to catch on, noticed how you leaned into Buck’s side during team lunches. How you laughed easier now. How Buck seemed to listen more — not just with his ears, but with his heart.
It wasn’t just affection.
It was something steadier.
And you felt it too.
For the first time in a long time, you didn’t flinch at the idea of something lasting. You weren’t waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for Buck to disappear when things got too hard. He had been showing up — for you, for the team, for himself — in a way that wasn’t performative. It was real.
You caught Hen watching you one morning in the kitchen. She was grinning.
“What?” you asked, sipping your coffee.
“You just look happy,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You smiled back, a little shy but not scared. “I think I am.”
Buck came up behind you, ruffling your hair with that ridiculous grin of his before stealing a bite of your toast.
“Hey,” you laughed.
“What? We share now,” he teased, mouth full.
Hen just shook her head and muttered something about whipped golden retrievers.
The rest of the day passed like any other — calls, chaos, controlled urgency — but the difference was in the pauses. The quiet in-betweens where Buck would find you, touch your hand briefly, or glance your way like you were the thing grounding him to the world.
And for once, you weren’t afraid of what that meant.
Because he wasn’t afraid either.
This wasn’t the kind of love that burned too fast and too bright. This was the kind that unfolded. That stayed. That chose you every day, in every little moment — even the ones no one else saw.
You were still the same firefighter. Still the same paramedic.
But now, in the laughter around the table, the warmth of the 118’s eyes on you, the feel of Buck’s fingers brushing yours when he thought no one was looking — you felt something new:
Home.
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