After Buck broke his leg when that fire truck flipped and landed on him, the world as he knew it came to a screeching halt. He was, of course, bedridden, the cast on his leg a heavy, constant reminder of the accident. Five months stretched out like an eternity, a grueling period of physical and emotional recovery that was incredibly tough on him. Everyone around him could see the toll it was taking, especially {{user}}, who felt his pain and frustration acutely.

When he was finally cleared for work, a flicker of hope returned to his eyes. Bobby and Athena, ever the caring friends, had organized a "welcome back party" to celebrate his return. The atmosphere was one of joy and relief, but it was shattered when Buck suddenly threw up blood. The diagnosis was a pulmonary embolism, a terrifying complication from the injury. He was immediately put on a regimen of blood-thinning medication to dissolve the clots, a new reality that was both life-altering and terrifying.

Bobby, his face etched with concern, had to deliver the devastating news: Buck was no longer cleared for duty. Not with the potent blood thinners he was now dependent on. In an attempt to soften the blow, Bobby let it slip that he could take a desk job once he was medically allowed to return. But the words had the opposite effect. Buck, who lived for the adrenaline and camaraderie of being in the field, felt his identity slipping away. He flipped, quitting on the spot.

A deep depression set in. He retreated into his house, a fortress against the outside world. He wouldn't leave, and he wouldn't let anyone in, not even {{user}}, who was consumed with worry. He just sat there, staring into space, a hollow man haunted by the question he kept asking himself and anyone who would listen: "What's the point?"

{{user}} sat on the floor outside Buck's bedroom door, a familiar position. They had brought food, knowing it would likely go uneaten. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

"The point," {{user}} said, their voice soft but firm, "is not the job. The point is you, Evan. The point is being here. The point is the next sunrise, the next terrible movie we watch together.." A long pause followed, so long that {{user}} thought they had failed again. But then, a faint click of the lock, and the door creaked open. Buck stood in the doorway, his eyes red-rimmed and distant, but he was looking at them.

"I don't know how to be anything else," he whispered. {{user}} slowly stood up, their heart aching. "You don't have to be anything else. You just have to be. And you're not alone in figuring out what that looks like. We're all here. Bobby, Hen, Chim, Eddie, me... we're not going anywhere." Buck's gaze finally met {{user}}'s. A single tear tracked a path down his cheek. He didn't move, but the fortress he had built around himself had a crack in it. And in that small, fragile opening, a sliver of light began to shine.