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“Your mouth’s open.”
Eddie blinks, tightening his jaw. He hadn’t realized it was.
Ravi’s standing beside him, beer in hand, eyebrows halfway to his hairline.
“What?” Eddie asks.
“Jeez, you two really need to get a room already.”
“What are you—” Eddie stops, because Ravi’s pointing toward the bar, where he’d been staring.
Buck’s there, waving down the bartender. The overhead light flashes against bare skin. The hem of his new sleeveless crop top stops just shy of his ribs, and every motion reveals another glimpse of muscle and skin and oh god. Eddie’s brain shorts out, air knocked right out of him.
It hadn’t seemed like a big deal earlier, when Buck knocked on his bedroom door—“You ready to go?”—and Eddie had opened it to find him wearing that same tiny shirt. Sure, for a full second he’d forgotten how to speak. But eventually he'd managed to tease him—"Steal one of Chim’s gym tees?" No big deal.
Now, in the mood lighting, the thought of anyone else seeing him like this made Eddie’s stomach twist.
“You’re staring,” Ravi says flatly.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are. You’ve been gawking at him all night.”
His shoulder rolls, a twitch more than a shrug, trying to shake off the tightness building there. Eddie drags a hand over his jaw, trying to play it off. “What’s your problem, man?”
“You!” Ravi explodes, voice sharp enough that a few people turn. “I thought, hey, Eddie’s back! Maybe Buck will finally shut up about him. But no. He’s worse.”
Eddie frowns, confused.
“It’s all, ‘Eddie never has time for me,’ and ‘I thought living together meant we’d hang out more, but he’s always off with Hen or Chimney,’” Ravi mimics, throwing up a hand. “I felt bad for him, honestly. He’s obviously obsessed with you. But now I get it! You’re both obsessed with each other, and somehow that’s my problem.”
Eddie’s pulse kicks. The words hit harder than they should. Eddie’s face goes cold first, then hot.
He stares down at his drink, the condensation dripping onto his knuckles. Obsessed? Ridiculous. He loves Buck. He admires him. He’s grateful for him. For Christopher, for the breakfasts, for the carpool. That doesn’t make him obsessed.
“Buck’s not obsessed with me,” he says, too quickly.
Ravi barks a laugh that actually doubles him over. “Please. If you told him what you actually think about that shirt, he’d pass out.”
Eddie opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Then Buck’s voice cuts through the noise like sunlight through smoke.
“Three shots of tequila—one for you, one for you…”
Cold glass presses into Eddie’s hand. He looks down, then up, and instantly forgets how to breathe. Buck’s close enough that the scent of salt and lime hits first. Then he sees the bare skin above his waistband, the hem of that too-short shirt, the start of his happy trail. The lighting in the bar seems to bend toward Buck.
“...on three? One, two—”
Buck downs his shot, Ravi follows, and Eddie’s a beat late. The tequila burns down his throat, grounding him just enough to breathe again. The burn chases the heat already crawling up his neck.
Buck’s grinning at him when the glasses hit the table. He doesn’t seem to notice that Eddie hasn’t moved in ten seconds.
“So, what were you guys talking about?” Buck asks, eyes flicking between them, smiling bright and easy.
Ravi’s grin turns feral. “Oh, just how Eddie thinks you look great tonight.”
The words hit like a misfired hose blast. Eddie’s grip tightens around air, his knuckles popping. Buck’s smile falters, a blush spreading high on his cheeks.
“Uh—what?” Buck asks.
Ravi pats Eddie’s shoulder like a proud younger brother. One glare from Eddie, and Ravi’s hand retracts fast. He grins at the shocked pair, before saying, “Well, you two have fun. I’m getting another round.”
Then he’s gone, leaving the noise of the crowd to rush back in.
Eddie exhales, rough. His heart’s thudding. Buck’s standing close enough that Eddie can feel the heat from his skin.
Buck’s still blushing, curls a little damp from the heat, shirt riding up again as he rubs the back of his neck. The sight makes Eddie’s heart skip for reasons he refuses to name. He looks away, hard.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” Eddie lies. “Ravi’s just… being Ravi.”
Buck laughs softly, still pink around the ears.
A beat passes.
"Um, Eddie?"
Eddie feels like there's a rock in his throat. "Yeah, Buck?"
"Do you really like my outfit?"
The question drops low, almost lost under the bass. Eddie blinks once, slowly. The sound of the bar fades to a hum. Faint laughter, glass clinks, the slide of a stool. It all feels distant. What isn’t distant is Buck, standing too close, lit by the flicker of the neon beer sign that keeps flashing OPEN in harsh red.
Eddie swallows, but it doesn’t help. His mouth feels dry and wet all at once, like the burn of the tequila is still sitting there. Buck’s voice had a hitch in it—a little shy, a little knowing—and Eddie doesn’t trust his own. Buck’s eyes have gone soft, and he's looking at him through his eyelashes, and it's a look that Eddie's never gotten before.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter than he meant to. The word barely makes it out, and Buck tilts his head, as if to hear it better. His curls catch the light when he does, gold against the dark. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple from the heat of the crowd, and for some reason that detail undoes Eddie more than the crop top ever could.
“Is it the jeans?”
The question lands with that easy confidence Buck wears better than his uniform. Eddie’s trying not to look, but the lighting isn’t helping—warm gold from the bar lamps, shadows pooling low, turning the denim almost black.
“It’s the shirt?” Buck asks, voice gone soft, teasing.
Eddie doesn’t answer right away. His mouth opens, then closes again. There’s too much static in his head, too many ways this could go wrong if he says what he’s thinking.
Buck licks his lips, waiting. The seconds stretch thin between them. Someone brushes past, jostling Buck’s shoulder, and Eddie’s hand moves on instinct to steady him. His fingers land just above Buck’s elbow. Warm skin. A quick inhale. That’s all it takes for the noise of the bar to fall away completely.
“Yeah,” Eddie admits finally. “It’s the shirt.”
The words come out rough, almost a whisper, but they land heavy. Buck’s grin flickers: real, startled, and for a second, almost timid.
Eddie swallows hard, continuing, “You look… good,” he manages. The words stumble out like they’ve been tripping over each other in his chest.
Buck’s grin widens. “Just good?”
Eddie exhales through a laugh that sounds too rough to be casual. “You know what I mean. It’s distracting,” he blurts, and instantly regrets it.
The word hangs between them, bright and dangerous. Buck blinks, surprised, and Eddie can feel the flush crawl up his ears.
Eddie drops his gaze to the floor, pretending to laugh it off. “It’s distracting,” he repeats, quieter, like admitting it again might make it less real.
“Good to know,” he says. It’s light, a joke, but Buck’s smile shifts. It's still playful, but there’s something new hiding underneath. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says.
Eddie reaches for his drink, finds it empty, and mutters, “I need air.”
“Yeah,” Buck says softly. “Me too.”
They step out into the night side by side, not touching, both pretending the cool air is the only reason their faces are burning.