When Buck saw him again for the first time, the air caught in his lungs like it had forgotten how to move. There was no warning, no dramatic entrance — just the familiar face in a crowd, a moment that knocked the ground out from under him. He smiled before he could stop himself, something tight and hopeful, something small and trembling beneath the surface. And then they were standing in front of each other, awkward and cautious, hearts thudding in ways they both pretended not to notice.

They hugged.

It was quick, polite. One of those hugs that said we used to know everything about each other, but now we’re strangers holding a memory. It wasn’t the kind of hug they used to share — not the kind that lingered in the silence of early mornings or wrapped around each other after long shifts and long nights. No, this one had edges. It was safe. Careful. A shield disguised as warmth.

Buck wanted to say something — anything. He wanted to explain why he left the way he did, without a word, without a real goodbye. He had a thousand versions of the conversation stored up in his head, each one more rehearsed than the last, and yet none of them felt right now. How do you apologize for ripping someone out of your life without giving them the chance to hold on?

“I thought it’d hurt less this way,” he almost said. But he didn’t. Because that was a lie. It had hurt like hell. Every morning after, every lonely night, every familiar face that wasn’t his — it all felt like punishment for the way Buck had walked away. And now, looking at him, standing there with that guarded smile and tired eyes, Buck wondered if he’d ever forgive himself for it.

They talked, sort of. About meaningless things. Safe things. Things that didn’t crack the dam open. But beneath every word, Buck felt it — the weight of the things unsaid. The missed birthdays. The nights apart. The silence that had grown too loud to ignore. He wondered if the other man could feel it too, if he was also aching under the surface, if the hug meant as much to him as it did to Buck.

He smelled the same. Looked the same. But everything had changed.

Buck wanted to ask if he was happy now. If he was seeing anyone. If there was even the smallest part of him that still remembered how they used to be — the late-night talks, the shared routines, the kind of love that felt like breathing. But instead, he stood there and smiled. Because that’s what they did now. They smiled. They hugged. They pretended they weren’t still bleeding.

And yet, as he watched him turn to go, Buck wanted to reach out. Just once. Just to say: I didn’t stop loving you. I just didn’t know how to stay when I was breaking. But the words stayed trapped behind clenched teeth and a shaky breath.

They hugged now. Not the way they used to. But it was something. And Buck held on to that, even as the space between them grew wide again.