The last time you saw Buck, you told him the truth in the gentlest way you knew how.

You said he deserved someone better.

You said it while your hands were shaking, while your chest felt like it was caving in, while every instinct in you screamed to stay. You said it because loving him felt like holding something bright and fragile, and you were convinced your own cracks would cut him sooner or later. You didn’t say I’m scared I’ll hurt you. You didn’t say I don’t feel good enough. You just let him believe this was about him being too good.

Buck nodded. He always did that—accepted pain like it was something he’d earned. He tried to smile for you. You left before it broke.

— 2:27 AM; 23 Months Later —

The call comes in on an ordinary night.

Domestic disturbance. Possible injuries.

You don’t think it’ll be different from the others. You’re used to the way fear sounds when it’s disguised as anger. You’re used to minimizing bruises, laughing things off, telling yourself it isn’t that bad, that it was just one night, just one argument.

The sirens are louder than you expect.

By the time the door opens, you’re already bracing yourself—shoulders tight, apologies lined up on your tongue. You don’t look up at first. You focus on the boots. The uniforms. The practiced calm.

Then you hear his voice.

Soft. Careful. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop.

“Hey,” Buck says, and then he stops.

There’s a fraction of a second where the world tilts. Where the room goes quiet except for your breathing. You look up, and there he is—helmet tucked under his arm, concern written all over his face.

And then recognition hits.

His eyes widen just slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for you to see it. Enough for him to see you.

Something in Buck breaks—not loudly, not dramatically. It’s the way his breath catches. The way his shoulders stiffen like he’s holding himself together with sheer will. The way his gaze flicks over you, cataloging injuries, fear, all the things you didn’t want him to ever see.

“Oh,” he says, barely more than air.

You want to explain. You want to apologize. You want to tell him you were wrong.

But Buck doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t look at the man behind you. He looks at you, like you’re the only thing in the room that matters, and his voice goes even softer.

“You’re safe,” he says. “Okay? We’ve got you.”