The Earthquake Nearly Took My Partner From Me, So I Finally Confessed Everything

The sizzle of bacon in the pan was the first sound, a familiar rhythm that set the tempo for the morning. Buck stood at the stove, flipping strips of bacon with a practiced flick of his wrist, while the scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen. He didn't have to look to know that Eddie was behind him, moving from the coffee maker to the cupboard to retrieve three plates. It was a dance they’d perfected over years, a silent choreography of domesticity that flowed as easily as breathing.

“Morning,” Eddie’s voice was low, still rough with sleep as he set the plates on the counter beside Buck. His arm brushed against Buck’s back, a casual touch that sent a familiar warmth straight through the thin cotton of Buck’s t-shirt. Buck’s focus tightened on the bacon, trying to ignore the way his skin tingled where they had made contact.

“Morning,” Buck replied, his own voice steady. “Pancakes or waffles for the man of the hour?”

“Pancakes,” Christopher announced, appearing in the doorway, already dressed for school, his glasses slightly askew. “And extra chocolate chips, please.”

Eddie smiled, turning to ruffle his son’s hair. “Only if you finish all your homework tonight without complaining.” He glanced at Buck, a silent question in his eyes. Buck gave a slight nod. Deal. It was how they operated—a system of checks and balances, of shared looks and unspoken agreements that kept their world turning smoothly.

While Buck poured batter onto the hot griddle, dotting it generously with chocolate chips, Eddie started on the lunches. He worked methodically, laying out bread, slicing turkey, and portioning fruit into containers. Buck watched him from the corner of his eye; the sure, steady movement of his hands, the focused line of his jaw. There was a quiet competence to Eddie that Buck had always admired, a solidity that made him feel anchored.

“Don’t forget the extra mayo,” Buck said, sliding a perfect, golden-brown pancake onto Christopher’s plate.

Eddie shot him a look, a small smirk playing on his lips. “I’d never forget. I know you can’t survive a shift without it.”

It was an old joke, a relic from one of their first shifts together, but it still made a warmth spread through Buck’s chest. This life they had built—this seamless blend of their days, their jobs, their families—felt more real, more fundamentally right, than anything Buck had ever known. He moved to the sink, rinsing the bowl, and his hip bumped against Eddie’s as Eddie reached for the refrigerator.

“Sorry,” they both murmured at the same time, stepping back. But for a second, their eyes met. In that brief moment, suspended in the quiet hum of the kitchen, Buck saw it all reflected back at him—the easy comfort, the deep-seated trust, and something else, something deeper and more intense that flickered just beneath the surface. It was a current that ran constantly between them, unspoken but always present. Then Christopher was demanding syrup, and the moment was gone, tucked away with all the other things they didn’t say out loud.

The blare of the station alarm cut through the quiet lull of the afternoon, a jarring summons to action. The transition was immediate, the easy camaraderie of the firehouse kitchen replaced by the focused intensity of the job. On the freeway, the scene was a twisted sculpture of metal and shattered glass. A four-car pile-up had turned three lanes of traffic into a disaster zone.

“Buckley, Diaz, you’re on the sedan,” Bobby’s voice cut through the noise. “Driver’s trapped, car’s unstable.”

They moved without a word, a single unit propelled by years of shared experience. The sedan was crushed, its front end accordioned into the back of an SUV, the rear precariously elevated on the guardrail. Buck grabbed the Jaws of Life, the heavy tool feeling like an extension of his own arms, while Eddie was already at the driver’s side window, his voice calm and steady as he spoke to the terrified woman inside.

“Ma’am, my name is Eddie. We’re going to get you out of here.”

Buck began his work, the hydraulic spreader biting into the mangled car door. He watched Eddie through the opening, saw the way he shielded the woman’s head, the reassuring pressure of his hand on her shoulder. They moved in their familiar rhythm, Eddie assessing and stabilizing the victim while Buck dismantled the cage of metal around her.

He’d just managed to pry the door open enough for Eddie to get better access when a low, metallic groan echoed from beneath the car. The entire chassis shifted, sliding a few inches further over the guardrail.

“Whoa, whoa, hold on!” Hen yelled from a few feet away.

Everything stopped. Eddie, half-inside the vehicle, froze. His eyes, wide and dark, shot to Buck’s. In that single, silent look, a universe of trust was exchanged. There was no panic in Eddie’s gaze, only an absolute, unwavering faith that Buck would handle it. That he would keep him safe.

The weight of that look settled in Buck’s bones, a familiar and profound responsibility. His mind worked instantly, assessing the physics of the wreck. “Cap, I need the winch from the engine! We need to anchor it to the jersey barrier, now!”

His voice was pure command, cutting through the chaos. While Bobby relayed the order, Buck was already moving, directing Hen and Chimney to place step chocks under the barely-touching wheels, creating a temporary brace. The winch cable was secured in under a minute, the tension pulling the sedan back from the brink, securing it firmly to the concrete median. The immediate danger had passed.

Eddie let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He gave Buck a short, sharp nod from inside the wreck. It was all the thanks that was needed between them. It said, I knew you would. Buck returned the nod, the hydraulic tool humming back to life in his hands as he went back to work, the unspoken constant between them solid as steel.

The shift was finally over. The exhaustion was a familiar weight, settling deep into Buck’s bones as he leaned against the doorway of the locker room. He watched Eddie slam his locker shut, the sound echoing in the relative quiet of the station. Most of the B-shift had already cleared out, leaving behind the lingering scent of stale coffee and disinfectant.

“You ready?” Eddie asked, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. The motion was tired but efficient.

“Almost,” Buck said, pushing off the doorframe. “Just need my keys. Think we have time to grab pizza on the way to your abuela’s? Save us from cooking.”

Eddie offered a small, weary smile. “You’re always thinking of my well-being.”

“Someone has to,” Buck shot back, the familiar banter a comforting end to a hard day. He turned to grab his own bag when the floor beneath them gave a sudden, violent lurch.

It wasn't a roll or a tremor. It was a brutal, upward shove, as if the entire building had been punched from below. A deafening, grinding roar erupted from the earth, a sound that vibrated through Buck’s entire body, shaking his teeth in his skull. He was thrown forward, his feet completely swept out from under him. For a disorienting second, he was weightless, his arms flailing for a hold that wasn't there. He saw the massive ladder truck in the apparatus bay bounce on its suspension like a toy before he crashed down hard onto the concrete floor. A sharp, searing pain shot through his ribs and head as the world tilted sickeningly around him.

Across the room, Eddie was thrown backward with incredible force. The bank of metal lockers buckled under the impact as he was slammed against them. The sharp edge of a locker door caught him just above his temple, and the back of his head connected hard with the metal. The world dissolved into a cacophony of groaning steel, shattering glass from the offices above, and the horrifying sound of the station tearing itself apart.

Then the lights flickered once, a desperate strobe that illuminated a scene of pure chaos, and died.

Total darkness fell. It was an absolute, suffocating blackness, filled with the dust that was now raining down from the ceiling, instantly clogging his throat and burning his eyes. The violent shaking subsided into a series of sickening tremors, the roar fading to a low, ominous rumble. For a moment, there was only the sound of falling debris and his own ragged breathing.

Disoriented, aching, and shrouded in black, a single, primal fear ripped through Buck, overriding everything else. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through his side. The dust was a thick grit in his mouth.

“EDDIE!” His voice was a raw shout, swallowed by the immense, terrifying dark.

A few yards away, pinned against the dented metal, Eddie’s head was spinning. The pain was a sharp pulse against his skull. He coughed, the air thick and unbreathable, but his only thought was a name. It tore from his throat, a desperate, ragged cry into the void.

“BUCK!”