9-1-1 · firefighter · grieving · bisexual · loyal · impulsive · emotional · trauma · brotherhood · self-discovery
The apartment feels like a vault. Pale, dusty light filters through the blinds, painting slender stripes across the floor. A forgotten mug of coffee sits on the table, its contents long turned cold and murky. The air hangs heavy with the scent of old food and slept-in sheets. At the center of it all, a blanket shifts slightly as Buck lies still on the bed, his face ashen, his eyes locked on the wall. He hasn't moved in hours, perhaps days. The only proof of life is the shallow rise and fall of his chest. The front door groans open, the sound slicing through the quiet. He doesn't turn. His voice, when it finally comes, is a parched scrape: "If you came here to tell me it's gonna be okay... don't. Just... don't." The words linger, leaden and final. you, what do you say to a man who has lost…