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Evan Buckley woke up before his alarm.
For once, it had nothing to do with nightmares or the phantom itch of adrenaline that came from too many late-night calls. His heart was pounding for a different reason, drumming against his ribs in a rhythm he hadn’t felt in years.
Stage rhythm.
He stared at the ceiling of his loft, listening to the quiet hum of the city outside. Sunlight bled through the blinds, putting pale stripes across the room and across his bare chest. He flexed his fingers unconsciously, feeling the ghost of a microphone pressed into his palm.
It had been almost a decade. Long enough that the posters had come down, the magazines were in second-hand shops, and the world had moved on from the height of Neon Avenue fever.
Except… they hadn’t really moved on. Neon Avenue was still out there. Still selling out arenas. Still topping charts. Still existing in a world Buck had deliberately walked away from.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, as if summoned by the thought.
He already knew who it would be. The name on the screen still made his stomach flip.
Luca Hayes: You awake yet, Ryder?
His throat closed for a second at the old name. Ryder. Evan Ryder. The version of himself who’d worn leather jackets under stage lights and pretended it didn’t bother him when people screamed but didn’t really see him.
He rolled onto his side and picked up the phone.
Buck: Yeah, I’m awake.
Buck: And it’s Buck now, remember?
Three dots appeared instantly.
Luca: You’ll always be Ryder to me, mate.
Luca: Big day.
Buck huffed, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Big day was one way to describe it.
Buck: You nervous?
Luca: I’m bricking it.
Luca: But they’re going to lose their minds.
Luca: LA. Neon Avenue. The missing piece back on stage.
Luca: You sure you’re okay with this?
Buck hesitated, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He saw flashes in his mind—fire, smoke, rescues. Christopher’s grin. Eddie’s exasperated fondness. Bobby’s quiet faith. Hen’s knowing eyes. Chim’s jokes. The 118.
The life he’d built that had nothing to do with sold-out arenas.
He had spent years pretending that chapter of his life was a closed book. He’d changed his hair, his style, his entire world. Neon Avenue had belonged to Evan Ryder. The 118 belonged to Evan Buckley.
And yet here he was, lying in his bed, the day already marked off on the station calendar as Buck’s “personal day,” his first real day off he’d demanded instead of having forced on him after an injury. Everyone had been… thrown.
Buck never took days off. Not willingly. Not without a fight.
He’d mumbled something about “family stuff” and avoided eye contact, and Bobby had raised an eyebrow but let it go. Hen and Chim had exchanged a look. Eddie had caught his arm in the locker room and quietly asked if everything was okay.
Buck had lied and said yes. It felt like the biggest lie he’d told since the last time he’d stepped off a stage.
Now there was no going back. Tickets were sold. The reunion was marketed as a “mystery special guest” for one night only. The rumor mill had gone wild, but no one had guessed the truth.
He swallowed and typed his answer.
Buck: I’m sure.
Buck: One night. That’s it.
Luca: One night. I promise.
Luca: See you at soundcheck, Ryder.
Buck set the phone down and stared at the ceiling again for a long moment.
One night.
He could do one night.
He blew out a breath and pushed himself up. There was a bag half-packed at the foot of his bed, clothes he hadn’t worn in years spread across the comforter—black jeans; a fitted, soft black T-shirt; a worn leather jacket he’d dug from the back of his closet and stared at for ten minutes before tossing it on the pile.
By the time he’d showered and dressed, he looked in the mirror and barely recognized himself.
Not because he looked like Evan Ryder again—he didn’t. His hair was shorter, the boyish roundness of his teenage face gone, replaced with angles and scars the camera had never captured back then. There was a weight in his eyes that had nothing to do with fame and everything to do with fires and losses and love.
But there was a piece of that old version of himself in the way he stood. In the way his shoulders loosened as he rolled them, the way his chest rose as he took a breath and felt the familiar hum of anticipation.
His phone buzzed again.
Eddie: You sure you’re okay, man?
Eddie: You looked weird yesterday.
The concern hit him right in the chest. Of course Eddie had noticed. Eddie always noticed.
Buck typed, deleted, and retyped his reply three times before settling on the safest version of the truth he could manage.
Buck: I’m fine. Just… old life stuff.
Eddie: Old life?
Buck: Don’t worry. I’ll be back next shift.
Eddie: Okay.
Eddie: If you need anything, you know you can call me, right?
Buck stared at that last message. His reflection looked back at him, leather jacket on, keys in his hand, phone screen glowing.
“Yeah,” he murmured to the empty room. “I know.”
He put the phone in his pocket and headed for the door.
~~~~~~~~~~
The arena smelled exactly the same as every arena Buck had ever been in.
Concrete and dust and stale popcorn. Metal rails, echoing sound checks, roadies shouting instructions, the far-off thump of bass as someone tested the sound system.
Buck walked down the service hallway toward the backstage entrance, his steps measured. He passed posters on the wall from previous concerts. Some of them were faded relics from the early days of Neon Avenue’s career, years before they had exploded. He saw their faces—five teenagers painted in glossy color, all teeth and perfect hair.
He saw himself. Or, rather, he saw Evan Ryder.
Seventeen-year-old Ryder with blond hair longer than Buck remembered wearing it, blue eyes lined in just enough makeup to pop under stage lights, cocky grin set on his face like armor.
He slowed, looking at the poster. At the kid he’d been. The one who’d thought fame would fix the emptiness he’d carried since childhood. The one who’d believed applause could wash away the feeling of being unwanted.
“Look at you,” someone said fondly from behind him, voice warm and unmistakably British. “Still stealing the show even on paper.”
Buck smiled before he turned. “Luca.”
Luca Hayes hadn’t changed much. His hair was a little shorter, a little darker at the roots, and there were faint lines at the corners of his eyes now, but the dimples were still there, the easy grin. He strode forward and pulled Buck into a tight hug.
Buck’s arms wrapped around him automatically, the familiarity slotting in place like they’d seen each other last week instead of years ago.
“You look good,” Luca said as he stepped back, clapping a hand on Buck’s shoulder. “Firefighter life suits you.”
“You stalking me?” Buck asked, trying for lightness.
Luca snorted. “The internet exists, mate. You disappeared and then suddenly there’s a news article about some firefighter in LA hanging off a ladder truck in the middle of a storm. You think we weren’t going to notice?”
Heat crept up Buck’s neck. “I didn’t exactly send out a press release.”
“Yeah, well.” Luca’s eyes softened. “I’m glad you’re alive. And happy. I mean that.”
Buck nodded once, throat tight. “So,” he said, reaching for safer ground. “Where are the others?”
“Causing chaos,” Luca replied. “Where else?”
He led Buck through the maze of hallways and into the main backstage area. The moment they stepped in, the noise hit—laughter, chatter, the clatter of equipment.
“Ryder!” a voice yelled across the room.
Buck barely had time to brace before Jace Moreno barreled into him, arms wrapping around him in a bear hug and lifting him off the ground.
“Jesus, Jace,” Buck wheezed as his feet left the floor. “Put me down.”
“You left us for axes and hoses, man,” Jace said, setting him down but not letting go. His dark eyes were bright, and his hair was pulled back into a messy bun. “You know how many people have been crying over you online for years?”
“I try not to google myself,” Buck said. “Ever.”
“Good,” Noah Park said from nearby, a small smile playing on his lips as he set down a guitar case. “You’d hate the comments.”
“Theo’s been reading them out loud for years,” Jace said. “He thinks it’s hilarious.”
“It is hilarious,” Theo Knight said, popping up from behind a stack of amp cases, curls flopping into his eyes. “Some girl wrote a fifty-thousand word essay about how your departure album changed her life. She quotes your bridge from ‘Second Spotlight’ like it’s scripture.”
Buck blinked. “You remember which one was ‘Second Spotlight’?”
“The power ballad,” Theo said instantly. “The one where you insisted on actually playing the guitar live and almost tripped over the monitor first night.”
“That was one time,” Buck protested, feeling heat climb his neck, but he was smiling. “And the cord was too short.”
“Mm-hmm,” Jace said. “You should thank me for catching you. My reflexes saved your pretty face.”
Buck laughed. The sound felt strange and familiar all at once, dredged from a part of him he’d boxed up and stored away. He looked around at the four of them—Luca’s fond exasperation, Jace’s smirk, Noah’s quiet amusement, Theo’s boundless energy.
Once, these had been the only people who really knew him. Or at least, knew the version of him the world had allowed to exist. Late nights in hotel rooms. Fights in buses. Shared secrets on rooftops.
He’d walked away from them. For good reasons, he reminded himself. For survival. For sanity.
“Alright,” Noah said, clapping his hands together lightly. “We’ve got soundcheck in an hour, and this old man”—he nodded at Buck—“needs to remember how not to miss his starting note on ‘Midnight Run’.”
“I did not always miss it,” Buck said, indignant. “Just… sometimes.”
Theo grinned. “We’ll get you a teleprompter.”
“Don’t you dare,” Buck shot back, heart pounding faster. He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
~~~~~~~~~~
At Station 118, the morning started like any other.
The coffee was burnt. The kitchen was noisy. Chim was complaining about something; Hen was quietly smirking into her mug. Bobby surveyed everything with the weary patience of a man who had seen every possible variation of a morning shift.
Eddie Diaz, shirt half done, frowned at his phone.
“Eddie?” Hen asked, sliding onto the stool next to him. “You look like someone told you you’re on dishes for a month.”
“Buck texted me,” Eddie said. “He says it’s ‘old life stuff’. What does that even mean?”
“Maybe he’s seeing someone,” Chim said, instantly pouncing, spoon waving in the air. “Old flame, hot date—”
Hen arched an eyebrow. “And he didn’t tell you? You? The man he trauma-dumps to after every weird dream?”
Eddie made a face. “He hasn’t been… weird. Exactly. Just… off.”
“How off?” Bobby asked, stepping into the kitchen with his own mug in hand. “Should I be worried?”
Eddie hesitated. He thought about the way Buck had avoided eye contact when he’d asked about the day off. The way his eyes had darted toward the lockers like he’d wanted to hide.
“I don’t know,” Eddie said honestly. “He said he’s fine. He promised he’d be back next shift.”
“Then we trust him,” Bobby said. “Every one of us comes in here with a life outside this house. If he needs space, we give it to him. If he needs help, we’ll be here when he asks.”
Chim shrugged. “Or we just put a tracker on him. Like a cat.”
Hen gave him a look. “We are not putting a tracker on Buck.”
“Just saying, it would solve a lot of problems,” Chim muttered.
Eddie’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it. Nothing new from Buck. Just a notification from Christopher’s school newsletter.
He swallowed the unease, pushed it down under coffee and routine. Buck was an adult. If he needed him, he’d call.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Soundcheck felt like slipping into an old skin.
Buck stood center stage, microphone in hand, the arena empty save for a handful of techs and the band. His voice echoed back at him from the far seats, the reverb of the space reminding him of thousands of nights just like this.
Except it wasn’t. Because this time, he knew he’d walk away again when it was over. He wasn’t chasing anything. He wasn’t begging the spotlight to fill the holes in him.
He was just… singing.
“Again from the top,” Noah called, fingers flickering over the keys. “You’re flat on the second verse.”
“I am not flat,” Buck protested.
“You’re absolutely flat,” Jace said, leaning into his mic, grin bright. “It’s okay, old man. The lungs aren’t what they used to be.”
“Say that again and I’ll show you what my firefighter lungs can do,” Buck muttered, but he smiled.
They ran through three songs together, the big hits Buck had helped write. His voice warmed up, muscle memory taking over. Lyrics he hadn’t consciously thought of in years slid easily off his tongue.
When they finally paused, Luca walked over and bumped his shoulder. “How do you feel?”
“Like I could throw up,” Buck said honestly.
Luca laughed. “That’s the right answer. Means you still care.”
Buck looked out over the empty rows, imagining them filled. Screams, signs, lights. People who had watched him grow up on stage. People who had opinions on his life without knowing him at all.
He thought about his crew. About the way Bobby would fold his arms and tilt his head, taking everything in. The way Hen would cut through the bullshit in two seconds flat. Chim’s unavoidable commentary. Eddie’s quiet, steady eyes tracking every movement.
They had no idea.
“You’re thinking about them,” Luca said softly.
Buck startled. “What?”
“The firefighters,” Luca said. “Your family now.”
Family. The word settled over Buck like a blanket. Warm. Heavy. Real.
“Yeah,” Buck said. “Yeah, I am.”
“You gonna tell them?” Luca asked.
Buck swallowed. “After,” he said. “I think I owe them that much. But I… I didn’t want anyone in that building tonight who thinks of me as Buck.”
Luca nodded slowly. “Fair enough. But… someone’s here, you know.”
Buck frowned. “What do you mean?”
Luca smirked and jerked his chin toward the near side section of seats, halfway up. There, in the middle of an otherwise empty row, a woman stood with a coffee in her hand, hair catching the lights.
Maddie.
She lifted a hand and waved, the motion big and unashamed. Even from here, he could see the pride in her eyes.
Buck’s chest went tight. “You told her?”
“I didn’t have to,” Luca said. “She came to us.”
Maddie Buckley was already hoarse by the time the actual concert started.
She hadn’t screamed like a teenager in a long time. It felt ridiculous and cathartic and exactly right.
She’d known, vaguely, about Neon Avenue back then. She’d seen her little brother on TV, of course. She’d watched him through the haze of her own personal hell, marriage and control and bruises. She hadn’t gone to shows. She’d watched the clips online when she could, covering her mouth to stifle sobs when he grinned at the camera and pretended he was fine.
She’d read the statement when he left the band. “Creative differences.” “Pursuing a different path.” Industry words that translated in her head to her baby brother drowning and no one noticing.
She hadn’t known about the reunion show until Luca had found her number through a maze of texts and management handlers and sent her a simple message.
Luca: We’re doing a one-off. For him. For us. For closure.
Luca: Do you want to be there?
She’d sat on her couch, phone in her hand, heart in her throat, and typed back with shaking fingers.
Maddie: Try and stop me.
Now she stood in a sea of Neon Avenue fans, some her age, some young enough to make her feel very old, all buzzing with the kind of electric anticipation she remembered from childhood.
The stage lights dimmed. The crowd screamed.
Maddie screamed with them.
~~~~~~~~~~
At the 118, the calls came in steady but not overwhelming. A minor car accident. A kitchen fire put out before it did more than scorched cabinets. A false alarm.
In between runs, Eddie checked his phone more often than was strictly necessary.
“Dude,” Chim said as they came back into the apparatus bay. “He’s fine. He’s a grown man. He probably just has, like, a dentist appointment.”
“A dentist appointment doesn’t make him look like he’s hiding something,” Eddie shot back.
Hen shook her head. “Maybe he’s finally seeing a therapist.”
“More likely,” Chim said, “he’s secretly auditioning for American Ninja Warrior. And he doesn’t want you to know until he wins.”
“He would tell me that,” Eddie said, then paused. “Probably.”
Hen opened her mouth to reply, but her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and snorted. “Speaking of secrets—my wife just sent me a link and a lot of exclamation marks.”
“What kind of link?” Chim asked, instantly interested, hovering.
Hen tapped it. “Some livestream on YouTube. Neon Avenue concert. Apparently it’s a big deal.”
“Neon Avenue?” Eddie repeated, vaguely recognizing the name. “They’re still around?”
“Apparently,” Hen said. “Karen’s nostalgic.”
Chim craned his neck. “Put it on the TV.”
Bobby’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with the radios, I don’t care what you watch between calls.”
Hen rolled her eyes fondly and headed for the common room, the others trailing after her. She connected her phone to the TV, and the screen went from the usual muted news channel to a live shot of a heaving arena, lights flashing, the crowd roaring.
“Wow,” Chim said, dropping onto the couch. “People really still care about boybands.”
“Don’t judge,” Hen said. “We all had our phases.”
Eddie leaned against the back of the couch, arms folded, watching as the camera panned across the stage. Four men were visible, backs to the camera, silhouetted against a huge neon sign that read “NEON AVENUE.”
A British voice boomed through the speakers. “Alright, LA!”
The crowd exploded.
Eddie flinched slightly at the volume, but he couldn’t deny the energy. It reminded him, weirdly, of the rush he felt before a big call. Anticipation. Nerves.
On-screen, the man with the mic—Luca, if Eddie remembered right from a random article—grinned. The camera zoomed in slightly.
“You’ve been with us a long time,” Luca said. “Through the early days, through the albums, through the tours. You stuck with us when we were just five kids learning how to dance in time together. Four kids,” he corrected, hand pressed to his heart, expression softening. “For a long time now, you’ve stuck with four.”
The crowd’s noise shifted, a low murmur, a question hanging in the air.
Hen’s brows rose. “Oh, they’re doing a sentimental bit.”
Jace stepped up next to Luca, mic in hand. “When one of us left all those years ago, we said it was the right choice for him. We meant it. Still do. He went off to live a normal life, while we kept doing… this.” Jace gestured around, at the arena, the lights. “But he never stopped being our brother.”
Noah’s voice came next, calm and clear. “We’ve missed him every single night on this stage. We know you have, too.”
Theo bounced on his heels. “So we made him a deal. One show. One night. One more time to sing together, like we used to.”
Chim leaned forward, eyes wide. “Oh, my God. The missing guy is back? Did the internet know about this?”
“Of course the internet knew,” Hen said. “The internet knows everything.”
Eddie frowned slightly, something prickling at the back of his mind. Something about “old life stuff.” About Buck’s tone when he’d texted.
Luca held up his hand, and the crowd slowly quieted. “LA,” he said. “Please welcome back, for one night only… the fifth member of Neon Avenue. The one and only…”
The arena went dark. A blackout. The camera scrambled to adjust.
Eddie’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, eyes glued to the screen.
Onstage, a single spotlight snapped on, glaring white. It cut across the smoke drifting on stage and stopped at the edge of the main riser, silhouetting someone stepping forward.
The crowd lost its mind. Screams, sobs, chants of a name Eddie couldn’t quite make out over the roar.
The camera swung in, shaky for a second as the operator tried to center the shot, and then it landed, held, focused.
On the man in the light.
Blond hair, shorter than the old clips but still catching the glow. Broad shoulders in a black leather jacket. A familiar line of jaw, a mouth Eddie had seen twist in laughter and fear and stubbornness.
Eddie’s fingers dug into the back of the couch. His pulse slammed in his ears.
“That…” he breathed. “That’s Buck.”
Hen’s eyes went wide. “What?”
Onscreen, the man—Buck, Evan Buckley, Evan Ryder, whatever name he was carrying in that moment—smiled into the light, a little nervous, a little shy, and lifted the mic to his mouth.
“Hey, LA,” he said, voice echoing through the arena and the 118’s common room. “Miss me?”
Chim choked. “No way. No way. That’s not—”
“It’s him,” Hen cut in, leaning forward fox-like, eyes narrowed. “Look at his face. Look at the way he moves.”
Buck shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his free hand flexing at his side like he wanted to fidget but knew the camera was on him. Eddie recognized every micro-movement. The restlessness. The way he carried himself when he was trying not to bolt.
The chat on the livestream exploded in a waterfall of comments, some of them flashing briefly on the screen.
OH MY GOD RYDER’S BACK
I KNEW IT I KNEW IT
CRYING SCREAMING THROWING UP
EVAN RYDER I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD BRO
“Ryder?” Eddie repeated, the word tasting strange. “He had a stage name?”
Chim was already on his phone, fingers flying. “Oh, this is wild. Neon Avenue. Members. Evan Ryder history—” He went quiet, eyes widening as search results popped up. “Oh, my God. How did we not know this?”
“Because he didn’t tell us,” Hen said quietly. “He never said a word.”
“Guys,” Eddie said, voice a little hoarse. “We’re missing something.”
On the screen, the band launched into the opening notes of a song. Jace hit the first line, the crowd screaming along. Buck—Ryder—waited, head bowed slightly, mic at his lips.
When his part came, he looked up. His eyes, blue and startling even through a camera lens and a TV screen, lit with something Eddie hadn’t seen in a long time. The pure, unfiltered joy of doing something he loved and being good at it.
He sang.
The sound filled the common room. The note was clean, strong, threaded with just enough rasp to make it interesting. Eddie felt something loosen in his chest, some knot he hadn’t known was there loosening with each line.
“Damn,” Chim whispered. “He’s really good.”
Hen’s gaze was intent. “No wonder he’s always humming around the station.”
“I knew he could sing,” Eddie said, almost to himself. “But that—”
The camera cut suddenly. A crowd shot. Not just random fans—this one was deliberate, zooming in on a familiar face half a section up, hair catching the colored lights, eyes bright, mouth open mid-lyric.
Maddie.
Hen let out a low whistle. “So Maddie knew.”
“Of course she did,” Chim said. “She’s his big sister. She probably drove him to his first audition.”
On-screen, Maddie’s face was lit with pride. She sang along, hand pressed to her chest like she could reach out and touch her brother just by standing there and loving him hard enough.
Eddie watched her for a beat, then looked back at Buck on stage. The way he moved, more grounded than the clips from his teen years, less desperate. The way he gravitated toward the other band members, shoulder-bumping Luca, grinning at Theo, laughing when Jace did a ridiculous dance move.
“Why wouldn’t he tell us?” Eddie asked softly.
Hen didn’t answer immediately. For a moment, they just watched—Buck joking between verses, the easy banter slipping into place with the other guys.
Then Hen said, “Maybe that part of his life hurt. Or maybe he thought we’d see him differently.”
Chim nodded slowly. “People treat you like a circus act when they find out you were famous once. Ask Maddie. She’d know.”
“I just…” Eddie shook his head, still staring. “How did I not see it? We practically live together.”
Hen looked at him sidelong. “You didn’t exactly google him when you met, did you?”
“No,” Eddie admitted. “It felt… I don’t know. Invasive.”
“Then there you go,” Hen said. “You saw ‘Buck, firefighter, idiot, disaster, hero.’ Not ‘Evan Ryder, pop sensation, international heartthrob.’”
Chim snorted. “Oh, my God. Buck was someone’s bias.”
“What’s a bias?” Eddie asked.
Hen patted his arm. “I’ll explain later.”
They watched in stunned silence as the song ended and the crowd erupted. Buck’s chest rose and fell visibly as he caught his breath, sweat starting to bead along his hairline. He smiled wide, genuine, and for a moment Eddie could see all the versions of him layered together—the hungry kid, the wounded man, the firefighter, the singer.
The camera cut to a wide shot as the band went into another song. Hen reached for the remote and turned the volume down a notch.
“Okay,” she said. “We’re finishing this later. But we need a game plan.”
“A game plan for what?” Chim asked.
“For when he comes back,” Hen said. “You know he’s going to walk into work like nothing happened. Probably make some stupid joke about traffic.”
Eddie’s jaw clenched. “We’re not just going to let that slide, right? He lied to us.”
“He didn’t lie,” Hen said gently. “He just… omitted. Look, guys. You know Buck. If he didn’t tell us, it’s not because he wanted to hurt us. It’s because, for some reason, he needed that secret to be just his for a while.”
Chim shook his head. “I’m still going to give him so much crap.”
“That’s your love language,” Hen said dryly. “Eddie?”
Eddie dragged his eyes away from the screen. Buck was mid-chorus, eyes closed, fingers curled tight around the mic like it was an anchor.
“I just want to know why,” Eddie said quietly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Backstage, after the show, Buck’s ears were still ringing.
Not from the music. From the crowd.
He’d forgotten what it was like, standing on stage with an ocean of people screaming his name. Calling for him. Crying. Laughing. Living entire lives set to songs he’d helped bring into the world.
He sank onto the edge of a crate, chest still heaving slightly. His hair clung damply to his forehead. His leather jacket was slung over a chair, T-shirt damp with sweat.
“You okay, man?” Theo asked, dropping down next to him, curls plastered to his own forehead.
“I’m… yeah,” Buck said, an exhausted, disbelieving laugh escaping him. “That was—”
“Insane?” Jace supplied, flopping onto the floor at his feet. “Incredible? Legendary?”
“Loud,” Noah said, setting a bottle of water in Buck’s hand. “Drink.”
Buck obeyed without thinking, gulping down half the bottle before coming up for air. “Thank you.”
Luca leaned against a nearby road case, arms folded, watching him with an assessing eye. “You didn’t miss a step.”
“Almost tripped over a monitor,” Buck said automatically.
Theo snickered. “Some things never change.”
“But you caught yourself,” Luca said. “You’re not seventeen anymore. You know where your feet are.”
Buck huffed a laugh and tilted his head back against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. He could still hear the final applause ringing in his head, feel the echo of the last note vibrating in his bones.
“Did you see Maddie?” he asked quietly.
“Hard to miss her,” Jace said. “She was singing every word. I thought her head was going to pop off.”
“After party?” Theo asked hopefully.
“You go,” Buck said. “I… I need to get home. My shift…”
“Starts tomorrow,” Noah said. “You checked your calendar a hundred times, remember? You’re clear tonight.”
Buck opened his eyes and looked at them. “I meant what I said. One night. I can’t… I can’t do this again. Not like before.”
Luca’s expression softened. “We know. We’re not trying to drag you back, Ryder. We just… wanted this. One more time. With you.”
Theo nodded, eyes a little shiny. “We’re proud of you, you know. For getting out. For…for doing something real.”
“Says the guy selling out arenas,” Buck said, but there was no bite to it.
“This is real,” Noah said quietly. “It’s just… a different kind of real. Yours looks like fire and sirens and saving people. Ours looks like key changes and merch lines. Both matter. But only one of them could have killed you from the inside out.”
Buck swallowed. “You remember that?”
“We all remember that,” Jace said. “You were fading right in front of us.”
There was a beat of silence. Buck stared at his hands. “I didn’t know how to leave without leaving everything.”
“And yet,” Luca said wryly, “here we all are.”
A knock sounded on the backstage door. A moment later, Maddie stuck her head in.
“Is it safe?” she called.
Buck’s heart lurched. “Maddie.”
She barreled in, abandoning any pretense of caution, and wrapped him in a hug so tight it stole his breath. He hugged her back just as fiercely, burying his face against her shoulder.
“You were amazing,” she said into his ear, voice thick with tears. “God, Evan. I’m so proud of you.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, the words sinking into places that still sometimes doubted. “Thank you.”
She pulled back enough to smack his arm. “Also? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this until Luca texted me.”
“I wanted to surprise you,” Buck said lamely.
She narrowed her eyes. “You wanted to avoid the emotional conversation.”
“Also that,” he admitted.
She cupped his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. “You’re allowed to have joy, little brother. Even if it comes from something that hurt you once. You get to choose how you meet it now.”
He nodded slowly, throat burning. “I know.”
She kissed his forehead. “Now. Go home. Sleep. And maybe figure out how you’re going to explain this to your coworkers.”
His stomach dropped. “Oh, God. The 118.”
Maddie grinned, wicked. “You really think Christopher isn’t watching Neon Avenue on YouTube right now?”
Buck groaned. “He is, isn’t he.”
“Sweetheart,” Maddie said, “that kid knows more about livestreams than either of us ever will. You’d better brace yourself. Tomorrow’s going to be… fun.”
It was already fun.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Dad, you have to look!” Christopher’s voice was high and breathless through the phone, the sound of the TV in the background almost drowning him out. “You have to, you have to!”
“Okay, okay,” Eddie said, one hand on his hip, the other holding the phone to his ear. He walked into the bunk room for a bit of privacy; Hen and Chim were still glued to the TV in the common room, volume turned down now as the concert shifted into encore mode. “I’m at work, remember?”
“I know,” Christopher said. “But you’re not on a call. I checked the app.”
Eddie blinked. “You—what app?”
“The scanner one,” Christopher said impatiently. “Anyway, you’re not on a call, so you can look. Dad, it’s Buck.”
“We saw,” Eddie said gently. “We’ve got it on the TV here.”
“You did?” Christopher squeaked. “Isn’t he so cool? He’s, like, a superhero firefighter and a rockstar. That’s, like, two things. Two whole things. Can he adopt me again?”
Eddie couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “I’m pretty sure he already did, buddy.”
Christopher huffed. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell us. I could have been going to concerts this whole time. He owes me.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said softly. “He kinda owes all of us.”
Christopher went quiet for a second. When he spoke again, his voice was smaller. “Are you mad at him?”
Eddie stared at the far wall. At the line of his gear hanging on the rack in the corner. At the faint reflection of his own face in the darkened window.
“I’m… confused,” he said finally. “And a little hurt. But… I don’t think I’m mad. Not really.”
“You gotta talk to him,” Christopher said, suddenly sounding very old and very young all at once. “If you don’t talk, it just gets worse. That’s what Carla says.”
Eddie’s mouth quirked. “Carla is very wise.”
“She is,” Christopher agreed. “So you have to listen to her. And me. Ask him why. And tell him it’s okay that he’s cool.”
Eddie felt something in his chest loosen further. “I’ll do that,” he promised. “You, uh… you liked the music?”
Christopher made a noise like Eddie had asked if water was wet. “Dad. I already added like five songs to my playlist. Buck sings good.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said, voice soft. “He does.”
They chatted for another minute before Eddie hung up and went back to the common room. The TV showed the end of the concert now, confetti raining down, the band bowing together, arms over each other’s shoulders.
Buck stood in the middle, head tipped back, laughing.
Hen glanced over as Eddie came in. “Christopher?”
“Already planning to guilt-trip Buck for not scoring him tickets years ago,” Eddie said, sliding onto the arm of the couch.
“Good,” Chim said. “He deserves it. I could have been bragging about knowing a famous person this whole time.”
“You already brag about knowing a famous person,” Hen pointed out. “You never shut up about Bobby’s cooking.”
“That’s different,” Chim said. “That’s local fame.”
Bobby chose that moment to walk in, towel slung over his shoulder. He looked at the TV, watched the five men onstage take their final bow, then looked at his team.
“Well,” he said calmly. “That explains the day off.”
Hen snorted. “You’re taking this very well.”
Bobby shrugged one shoulder. “I knew Buck had secrets when he showed up here. We all do. I’m just glad one of them turned out to be…this.”
Chim gestured at the screen. “Sir, with all due respect, that man is Neon Avenue’s Evan Ryder. He is not just ‘this’. He is every millennial’s fever dream.”
Bobby met his eyes, deadpan. “And tomorrow, he’s still my firefighter. Who has to be on time for his shift.”
Eddie exhaled, a smile tugging at his mouth despite the swirl of feelings underneath. “Yeah,” he said. “He does.”
~~~~~~~~~
Buck almost didn’t go into work the next day.
He stood outside the station in the morning light, turnout gear bag over his shoulder, heart pounding harder than it had before running into a burning building. His fingers tightened on the strap until his knuckles ached.
He could hear them inside. Voices, laughter, the usual chaos of the start of shift. The faint hiss of the coffee pot, the clink of dishes.
He swallowed. “They saw it,” he muttered to himself. “Of course they saw it. It was streamed worldwide.”
Maddie’s words echoed in his head. “You’re allowed to have joy. You get to choose how you meet it now.”
He took a breath. Another. He’d chosen.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Conversation stopped.
Every head in the kitchen turned in his direction. Hen, Chim, Eddie, Bobby, Ravi at the end of the table. Even the probie looked like he’d just stumbled onto a live taping of something important.
For a second, no one spoke. Buck stood in the doorway, bag on his shoulder, in his usual faded jeans and sweatshirt, station T-shirt visible at the collar.
Then Chim leaped to his feet, plastered on the most exaggerated expression of shock Buck had ever seen, and clutched his chest.
“Oh, my God,” Chim gasped. “It’s you. Evan Ryder. In my humble firehouse.”
Hen groaned. “Chim.”
“No, no, let him have this,” Ravi added a beat later, clearly torn between exasperation and amusement.
Chim hurried forward, practically skidding to a stop in front of Buck and thrusting out his hand dramatically. “Hi, huge fan, big fan of your work, both musical and, you know, saving-people-from-certain-death related. Can I have your autograph? Would you sign my helmet? My apron? My soul?”
Buck stared at him, then looked around.
Hen’s lips were pressed together tightly, like she was trying not to smile. Bobby’s expression was calm, but his eyes were warm. Ravi was clearly trying not to gape. And Eddie—
Eddie stood by the counter, arms folded, eyes fixed on Buck with an intensity that made Buck’s breath catch.
Buck forced a smile, his usual deflection rising automatically. “I, uh, charge extra for soul signatures.”
Chim gasped more theatrically. “His banter is even better live.”
Hen rolled her eyes and stood, stepping forward. “Alright, superstar,” she said. “You want to tell us why we had to find out from YouTube that our teammate is secretly the fifth Beatle?”
“Fifth what?” Ravi whispered.
“Don’t,” Hen said. “Just—don’t.”
Buck shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, suddenly feeling exposed, like the leather jacket he’d worn on stage had been armor and he’d shed it. “I… was going to tell you,” he said. “I just… I didn’t know how.”
“‘Hi, my name is Evan Buckley. I used to be in a world-famous boyband,’” Chim suggested. “Pretty straight forward.”
“Chim,” Bobby said quietly.
Chim held up his hands. “What? I’m not mad. I’m…okay, I’m a little mad. But mostly I’m amazed.”
Hen’s gaze softened. “Why didn’t you tell us, Buck?”
He looked at her, then at Bobby, then finally at Eddie. Eddie’s face was careful, guarded in a way that hurt more than outright anger might have.
“Because,” Buck said, voice coming out rougher than he intended, “for the first time in my life, I was somewhere where it didn’t matter. Where no one cared about…about Evan Ryder. Where I got to be just…Buck. A messed-up guy trying to do something good.”
The words hung in the air.
“I didn’t want to bring all that here,” he went on quietly. “The cameras, the expectations, the… everything. I didn’t want you to look at me and see… him. The kid who burned out in front of the whole world.”
Hen’s eyes glistened. “We already saw you,” she said gently. “Long before the TV told us anything.”
“But I didn’t look,” Eddie said suddenly, his voice steady but tight. Every head turned to him. He pushed off the counter and took a few steps forward, stopping in front of Buck, close enough that Buck could see the tiny lines at the corners of his friend’s eyes. “I didn’t google you. It never even crossed my mind. I just took you for who you were in front of me. And now I’m standing here wondering how I missed this huge part of you.”
Buck’s heart lurched. “You didn’t miss it,” he said quickly. “I…hid it.”
“Why?” Eddie asked, searching his face. “You said you wanted to be just Buck. Okay. I get that. But we’re your family. You didn’t trust us with this?”
“It’s not about trust,” Buck said, feeling panic start to rise. “It’s—”
“Feels like it,” Eddie cut in, quiet but firm.
Buck flinched.
Bobby stepped in, voice low and even. “Why don’t we all take a breath,” he suggested. “Buck, you don’t owe us a performance here. But you do owe us honesty. When you’re ready, you can start there.”
Buck swallowed hard. His throat felt too tight. His bag suddenly weighed a ton on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking. “I should have told you. I just… every time I thought about it, I remembered what it felt like. Being on stage. Being watched all the time. I thought if I brought that here, I’d ruin this. Ruin us.”
Hen stepped closer, laying a hand on his arm. “You’re not going to ruin us, Buck. You’re not that powerful.”
Chim nodded solemnly. “Only I have that power.”
“God help us,” Ravi muttered.
A shaky laugh escaped Buck, unexpected. Some of the tension bled out of the room.
Eddie watched him for a moment, then sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m… not good at surprise,” he admitted. “Especially surprise that comes with the whole world knowing something about you that I didn’t.”
Buck’s gaze snapped up. “Eddie—”
“I’m not mad at you for having a life before us,” Eddie went on. “Or for doing something huge and scary and then walking away. If anything, I’m…” He huffed a humorless little laugh. “I’m proud of you. For knowing when to say enough. But I am hurt you didn’t think you could tell me. Tell us.”
Buck’s chest ached. “I didn’t want you to treat me differently.”
Eddie’s brow furrowed. “Do I look like I care if you can hit a high note?”
“Well, Christopher does,” Hen murmured.
Eddie shot her a look. “He’s already planning how to leverage this into more movie nights.”
Buck blinked. “He knows?”
“The whole city knows,” Chim said. “You were trending on Twitter, man. I didn’t even know I still had Twitter.”
Buck groaned and dropped his head for a second, then lifted it again. “I’ll…tell you everything,” he said. “If you want to know. How I got in, why I left. All of it.”
Hen nodded. “We’d like that.”
Chim grinned. “Story time with Buck. I’ll make popcorn.”
Bobby’s eyes were kind. “You can do it after shift. In the meantime,” he said briskly, clapping his hands together lightly, “we have a job to do. And unless you’ve forgotten how to pull hose lines in favor of choreography, I expect you on that truck when the bell rings, Buckley.”
The familiar use of his last name grounded him like nothing else. Buck straightened, shoulders sqaring. “Yes, Cap.”
As the group started to disperse, Hen and Chim heading back to their stools, Bobby to the coffee pot, Buck felt Eddie’s hand brush his arm.
He turned.
Eddie jerked his head toward the apparatus bay. “Walk with me?”
Buck nodded, pulse spiking again, and followed him out.
They stepped into the bay, the smell of fuel and metal and soap wrapping around them. Sunlight slanted in through the open door, catching the dust motes in the air.
Eddie leaned against the side of the engine, arms folded, looking at Buck with that same searching intensity.
“I meant what I said,” Eddie began. “I’m…hurt. But I’m not going to hold that over your head forever.”
Buck shifted his weight. “You can. If you want. I deserve it.”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “That’s not how this works, man.”
Buck opened his mouth, closed it again.
Eddie sighed. “Look, Buck. I get why you left that life. Whether you tell me the details now or later, I’ve seen enough of you to know it wasn’t good for you anymore. You’re better here. With us. With…me.” His jaw worked for a second on that last word. “What I don’t want is for you to decide unilaterally what parts of you we’re allowed to know.”
Buck stared at him. “I was…ashamed,” he admitted, voice low. “Not of the music. Or the guys. Just…of what it did to me. How I let it define me so completely that when it ended, I didn’t know who I was without it. I didn’t want you to see that version of me. needy, desperate, always looking for approval from a crowd full of strangers.”
Eddie’s expression softened. “I’ve seen you chase approval from a crowd of one,” he said quietly. “Me. Christopher. Bobby. Random people on the street. It’s not a boyband thing, Buck. It’s a you thing. And we’re working on it.”
A startled laugh broke from Buck. “Yeah,” he said. “We are.”
“Besides,” Eddie added, mouth quirking, “Christopher thinks it’s the coolest thing ever. He sent me a meme this morning of a firefighter in turnout gear holding a mic. Caption said, ‘Your best friend could never.’”
Buck blinked rapidly, laughter and something wet burning behind his eyes. “He…he’s not freaked out?”
“He wants you to sign his tablet,” Eddie said dryly. “And also to pick him up from school in full gear and sing the chorus of ‘Midnight Run’ in the parking lot.”
Buck groaned. “Oh, God.”
“You’re not doing that,” Eddie said, lips twitching. “But you are coming over this weekend. He’s already curated a playlist.”
Buck felt something settle in his chest, warm and solid. “I can do that,” he said softly.
Eddie studied him for a moment. “So. Evan Ryder.”
Buck winced. “Don’t.”
Eddie ignored that. “Was that…you? Really you?”
Buck thought about it. The kid on the posters. The man on the stage last night. The firefighter standing in a sunlit bay, heart in his throat.
“It was a version of me,” he said slowly. “One that was trying really hard to earn love by being loud enough, noticeable enough, perfect enough. Last night… felt different. I wasn’t singing to prove I deserved to be there. I was just…singing. With my friends. For my sister. For that kid who never thought he’d get out.”
“And for us,” Eddie said.
Buck’s head snapped up. “You?”
Eddie shrugged, like it was no big deal. “You knew, somewhere in there, that we’d find out. Whether you wanted us to see it then or later, some part of you wanted…this. Wants to be fully known. Even the weird popstar bits.”
Buck swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I think I did.”
Eddie pushed off the engine and stepped closer, close enough that Buck could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. “So next time,” Eddie said, “maybe trust me enough to share before the entire internet does.”
Buck let out a shuddering breath. “I’m trying,” he said. “I really am.”
Eddie’s mouth softened into a small, genuine smile. “I know.”
For a moment, they just stood there, the sounds of the station muffled behind them, the weight of fame and secrets and fire and family balanced on a knife’s edge between them.
Then the bell rang.
The engine bay filled with the shriek of the alarm. Radios crackled, voices called out. Buck and Eddie moved as one, years of instinct taking over.
As Buck grabbed his gear, helmet in hand, he stole one last glance at Eddie.
Eddie met his eyes, nodded once, then climbed into the truck.
Buck followed, sliding into his seat, heart hammering for a different reason now. The reason that had nothing to do with screaming fans and everything to do with screaming sirens.
As the engine rolled out of the bay, lights flashing, Buck looked out at the city. Somewhere out there, people were still watching a replay of last night’s concert. Somewhere, fans were still dissecting every note, every look.
In here, in this truck, his crew was figuring out how to integrate “former global popstar” into the existing mental file titled “Buck: chaos, heart, family.”
He could live with that.
He smiled to himself, adjusted his helmet, and braced as the truck picked up speed.
Evan Ryder belonged to the world.
Evan Buckley belonged here.
And for the first time in his life, he felt like both of those truths could coexist without tearing him apart.