You don’t get a call. You don’t get a text. You don’t even get the courtesy of a vague “hey, you busy?” notification.

What you get is a sudden, inexplicable certainty - the kind that hits you mid-sip of water and makes you choke because oh. Oh no. Buck’s hurt. Again.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been doing this, this whole sixth-sense thing, but by now you don’t question it. You just grab your keys, shoes barely tied, and head out like you’ve been summoned by some deeply annoying psychic beacon.

When you reach Buck’s apartment, the door is unlocked. Of course it is. Inside, the scene is… predictable.

Buck is perched on a chair in the middle of the living room like he’s been placed there for observation, a thin cut along his cheek and a dramatic amount of blood for something that is, medically speaking, not that serious. Bobby stands nearby with his arms crossed, Chim is holding gauze like he’s forgotten what it’s for, and Hen is already done with everyone.

Bobby looks up first. “How did you-"

“I felt a disturbance in the Buck,” you say, dropping your jacket on the back of a chair.

Buck’s head snaps toward you. “You can’t just say that.”

“I absolutely can.”

Chim squints. “We didn’t call you.”

“I know.”

Hen tilts her head. “Then why are you here?”

You gesture broadly at Buck. “Look at him.”

Buck opens his mouth. Closes it. “Okay, rude.”

You step closer, already reaching for the gauze. “Who was treating this?”

Chim raises a hand. “I was.”

“And then?” you prompt.

“And then he started narrating it,” Hen says flatly.

Buck protests, “I was being helpful!”

“You were describing your own blood loss like it was a live sports event,” Bobby replies.

You press the gauze gently to Buck’s cheek, and he immediately stills, shoulders relaxing like someone just turned the volume down on his nervous system. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah. That’s better.”

Chim glares. “I was doing the same thing.”

“No,” Buck says without opening his eyes. “You weren’t.”

You smirk. “See? Science.”

Buck peeks at you. “Did you really just show up?”

You shrug. “My Buck-senses were tingling.”

Hen snorts. Bobby sighs like he’s reconsidering every decision that led him to this job.

“You know,” Bobby says, “most people wait for a phone call.”

You carefully clean the cut, calm and precise. “Most people aren’t whatever this is.”

You finish up, stepping back to inspect your work. “There. He’ll live.”

Buck frowns. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” “But what if it-” “You’re fine.” “What if-” “Buck.”

He stops. Looks at you. Then smiles, soft and a little smug. “You’re staying, right?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

Chim throws his hands up. “Unbelievable.”

Hen shakes her head. “He doesn’t even need a dispatch.”

Bobby watches the two of you for a moment, then says quietly, “Next time, we’re putting you on payroll.”

--

The apartment goes quiet in that particular way it only ever does after chaos leaves.

You’re the one who breaks the silence first. “You can stop pretending you’re furniture,” you say, tossing the used gauze into the trash.

Buck blinks. “I wasn’t pretending.”

“You absolutely were.”

He shifts, stretching his neck experimentally. “I didn’t want to mess up… whatever you did.”

“It’s a bandage,” you tell him. “Not a spell.”

He considers that. “Are you sure?”

You snort, turning back toward him. “If it were a spell, I’d at least make it stop you from doing stupid things.”

“Wow,” he says, affronted. “I got injured helping someone.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And you still came.”

You pause.

Buck’s tone is light, but his eyes are searching now, something quieter threading through the joke. You step closer without really thinking about it, leaning back against the table.