BUCK AND EDDIE

The first thing I notice about Eddie Diaz is the way he holds his coffee cup. Both hands, fingers laced around the ceramic like it might try to escape. A man who's been burned before. Not by hot drinks, obviously. By something bigger.

I'm staring. I know I'm staring. But it's five in the morning and the station house kitchen smells like burnt toast and industrial cleaner, and this new guy is standing there like he's been here for years, leaning against the counter with that two-handed grip, and I can't look away.

"You gonna introduce yourself or just keep undressing me with your eyes?" he says.

Doesn't even look up from his coffee.

My face goes hot. "I wasn't, I mean, I was just, you're new."

"Eddie." He takes a sip. "And you're Buck, right? Cap mentioned you."

"All good things, I hope."

"Didn't say much." Now he looks up. Dark eyes, steady. Not unfriendly, exactly. Guarded. "Just that you're a lot."

I laugh because what else do you do with that. "A lot of what?"

He shrugs one shoulder. Doesn't answer. Goes back to his coffee.

And that's it. That's the whole first conversation. I stand there for another thirty seconds feeling like an idiot, then grab my gear and head to the truck bay because the bell's gonna ring eventually and I'd rather be doing something than standing in a kitchen with a guy who makes me feel like I'm the one who's out of place.

Except I've been here three years. He's been here three hours.

The thing about Eddie is he doesn't talk unless he has something to say. Which sounds noble when you write it down, but in practice it's infuriating. I'm a talker. I fill silences. It's a compulsion, honestly, like an itch I can't not scratch. And Eddie just lets me. Lets me ramble about the new ladder truck specs, about the protein powder I'm trying, about my sister Maddie's latest crisis with her ex. He nods. He listens. He doesn't tell me to shut up.

But he doesn't tell me anything about himself either.

Three weeks in and all I know is: he's from Texas, he was army medic, he's got a kid. Christopher. Seven years old. The way he says the name, soft and careful, like it's something precious he's afraid of dropping. I catch him looking at his phone during downtime, thumb hovering over the screen. Pictures, probably. He never shows anyone.

"You're staring again," Hen says.

We're in the gym. She's spotting me on bench press. I'm not lifting anything impressive, just going through the motions, and she's got that look on her face, the one that says she sees right through me.

"I'm not staring."

"You're doing that thing where you pretend to focus on your set but really you're watching Eddie do pull-ups."

"I'm observing his form. It's a safety thing."

"Uh-huh." She doesn't believe me. She shouldn't. "You know he's got a kid, right? And an ex-wife. And a whole life that doesn't include you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." She racks the bar. "Just saying. You got that look."

"What look?"

"The one you had with Abby."

That lands like a punch to the sternum. I sit up too fast, blood rushing to my head. "That was different."

"Was it?"

I don't answer. Because the truth is I don't know. Abby was... complicated. Older, leaving, already gone before we even started. Eddie's not leaving. Eddie's right here, doing pull-ups in a station house gym, sweat dripping down his back, and I'm watching him like a creep and I can't stop.

The bell rings.

We're out the door in ninety seconds. Structure fire, residential, possible occupants inside. The address is in the Hills, one of those big houses with too many windows and not enough exits. We roll up and the smoke is already thick, black, pouring out of the second floor.

"Buck, Eddie, search and rescue. Second floor. Hen, Chimney, ventilation. Let's move."

I'm on the stairs before Bobby finishes the sentence. Eddie's right behind me, close enough I can hear him breathing through his mask. The heat hits us at the landing. That familiar wall of it, pushing back like a hand.

"Left side," I say. "I'll take right."

He nods. We split.

The first room is empty. Second room, empty. Third room, a kid's bedroom, and there's a boy, maybe ten, huddled under the window with a blanket over his head. He's crying. Can't be more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.

"Hey, hey, I got you." I scoop him up. He wraps around me like a koala. "You're okay. I'm gonna get you out."

The hallway is worse now. Smoke banking down, visibility near zero. I'm moving by memory, one hand on the wall, the kid coughing against my neck. I can hear Eddie's voice through the radio. "Right side clear. Heading back."

"Copy. I got one. Coming out."

Then the floor groans. That sound. The one that makes your stomach drop because you know what's coming and there's nothing you can do about it.

The stairwell collapses.

I don't remember falling. I remember the kid screaming. I remember hitting something hard, my shoulder, my back, the air leaving my lungs in one ugly whoosh. I remember thinking, stupidly, that I never told Eddie about the thing with Abby. Never told him why I look at him like that.

Then nothing.

I wake up in a hospital bed. White ceiling. That antiseptic smell. My shoulder's wrapped and my head feels like it's full of cotton. Maddie's asleep in the chair next to me, her hand on my arm. And Eddie's standing by the window.

"You're awake," he says.

"Apparently." My voice sounds like gravel. "The kid?"

"Fine. Smoke inhalation, minor. He's asking about the firefighter who carried him out."

"Did you tell him I'm incredibly handsome and humble?"

"I told him you're an idiot who doesn't check the structural integrity of a stairwell before running across it."

I try to laugh. It hurts. "That's fair."

He walks over. Stands at the foot of my bed with his arms crossed. He's still in his uniform, soot on his collar, dark circles under his eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept.

"You could've died," he says.

"Part of the job."

"No." His voice is sharp. Sharper than I've ever heard it. "You could've died because you were reckless. Because you didn't wait for backup. Because you always, always run in first like you've got something to prove."

I stare at him. "What's your problem?"

"My problem is I've been here three weeks and I've already watched you almost kill yourself twice. Once on the freeway, once in a burning building. And I don't know if you're brave or just stupid, but either way it's exhausting."

"Nobody asked you to watch."

"No," he says. "Nobody did."

He's quiet for a second. Then he pulls the chair from the corner, sets it next to Maddie's, and sits down. Doesn't say anything else. Just sits there, looking at me, like he's waiting for something. Like he's trying to figure me out.

I should tell him to leave. I should tell him I don't need a babysitter. I should tell him he's the one who's exhausting, with his silence and his two-handed coffee grip and his kid he never talks about.

Instead I close my eyes.

"You gonna be here when I wake up?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer right away. I hear him shift in the chair. Hear him exhale.

"Because someone should be," he says.

And I don't know what that means. I don't know what any of this means. But I'm too tired to ask, and too sore to argue, and somewhere in the back of my mind there's a voice that sounds a lot like Hen saying I told you so.

I fall asleep anyway.

When I wake up again, it's dark. Maddie's gone. Eddie's still there. He's asleep too, head tipped back against the wall, mouth slightly open. Vulnerable in a way he never is when he's awake.

I watch him for a long time. The rise and fall of his chest. The way his hand is curled on his knee, relaxed for once. And I think about what he said. Someone should be.

Nobody's ever said that to me before. Not like that. Not like it was a fact, simple and true, like the sky being blue.

I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what he's doing. But when the nurse comes in to check my vitals and asks if I need anything, I tell her no. I tell her I'm good.

And I am. For now.

Eddie stirs. Opens his eyes. Looks at me like he forgot where he was for a second, then remembers.

"You're still here," I say.

"Told you I would be."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer. Just reaches over and adjusts the blanket on my lap, pulling it up over my chest. His hand brushes my arm. Warm. Brief.

"Get some rest, Buck," he says.

And I do.