Chapter 10: Comfortable Evening
The pizza arrived in a grease-spotted cardboard box that filled the cottage with the smell of baked dough and pepperoni. Buck tried to pay, fumbling one-handed with his wallet, but Kenny had already handed over the cash, shooing the delivery kid away with a quiet thanks.
“You’re a terrible patient,” Kenny said, setting the box on the coffee table. “Trying to move. It’s like you’re morally opposed to sitting still.”
“I’m a doer,” Buck grumbled, but he settled back against the sofa cushions, his bare chest a pale contrast to the worn navy fabric. The bruise looked darker in the low lamplight, a storm cloud under his skin.
They ate straight from the box, paper towels on their laps. Buck managed with his right hand, clumsy but determined. Kenny found a mindless reality competition show on TV, full of shouting chefs and dramatic music. It was the perfect noise.
“That sauce is a crime against tomatoes,” Buck said around a mouthful, pointing at the screen with his crust.
“Says the man whose spice cabinet contains exactly salt, pepper, and a container of garlic powder from 2019,” Kenny shot back, peering toward the kitchen.
“It’s a timeless vintage. And I order takeout. I have a system.”
“A sad, sad system.”
Buck laughed, a real, full-bodied sound that ended in a sharp wince as it jarred his shoulder. Kenny’s smile faltered. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Buck’s eyes were bright, a little glassy from the painkillers but intensely present. “Haven’t laughed at something this stupid in ages. Usually it’s just Riggs re-telling the same fishing story.”
The show rambled on. The pizza dwindled to a single forgotten slice. Kenny felt the strange, comforting weight of the ordinary settling over them. This was what people did. They ate bad food and watched bad TV. The simplicity of it, after the sharp terror of the clinic and the overwhelming newness of the firehouse, felt like a gift.
Cleaning up was a silent, shared task. Kenny took the box to the trash outside, the night air cool and pine-scented. When he came back in, Buck was standing awkwardly by the bathroom door, his good hand braced against the frame.
“I hate to ask,” Buck said, his voice low. “But this whole shower thing… it’s not a one-armed sport.”
The request hung in the air. It was practical. Necessary. It also felt like stepping over a cliff.
“Right,” Kenny said, his mouth dry. “Of course. Let’s, uh, let’s do it.”
The bathroom was small, steamy from the hot water Kenny started in the shower. He helped Buck out of his jeans, the denim rough under his fingers, the task clinical and intimate all at once. Buck’s balance was off, his weight leaning into Kenny’s support. Kenny kept his eyes fixed on the tile pattern—little blue squares—as Buck stepped into the tub, the clear plastic curtain between them doing nothing to diminish the reality of the moment.
“Just stand there,” Kenny instructed, his voice echoing off the tiles. “I’ll do the work.”
He reached around the curtain with the handheld sprayer, testing the temperature on his wrist. Then he began, methodically wetting Buck’s hair, his good shoulder, carefully avoiding the bandage. He squeezed shampoo into his own palm and then worked it through Buck’s hair, his fingers massaging the scalp. Buck let out a slow, shuddering breath, his head bowing forward.
“That’s… okay,” Buck murmured. “That’s really okay.”
Kenny rinsed, the suds swirling down the drain. He soaped up a washcloth and, with a courage he didn’t know he possessed, reached around to wash Buck’s back, the powerful muscles there, the dip of his spine. He was careful, thorough, a caretaker in a steamy little box. The heat, the scent of plain soap, the sound of water—it all coalesced into a ritual of profound trust.
When he was done, he turned the water off. The sudden silence was louder than the spray had been. Kenny handed a towel in, then another.
“Can you manage the rest?” he asked, his own shirt damp in spots from the steam.
“Yeah,” Buck said, his voice thick. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Kenny busied himself gathering the discarded clothes, giving Buck a moment of privacy. When Buck emerged, the towel slung low around his hips, his hair dark and dripping onto his shoulders, Kenny let himself look. Really look. The man was solid, real, standing in a puddle on the bathmat, somehow more vulnerable than he’d been shirtless on the couch.
“Medicine cabinet again,” Buck said, nodding toward a small stack of clothes on the toilet lid. “Boxers. That’s… that’s probably the summit I can climb tonight.”
Kenny fetched them. They were simple gray cotton. He held them out. Buck fumbled with the towel, trying to switch it one-handed. He wobbled.
“For god’s sake,” Kenny sighed, the tension breaking. He stepped forward. “Let me.”
He took the boxers, crouched down, and held them open like he was assisting a toddler. “Step in.”
Buck’s laugh was a huff of air. He planted his hands on Kenny’s shoulders for balance, his grip warm and firm. Kenny focused on the task, guiding the fabric up Buck’s legs, helping it over his hips, his knuckles brushing damp skin. He stood up quickly, their faces close in the humid air.
“There,” Kenny said, his voice barely a whisper. “Dressed for success.”
Buck looked down at himself, in nothing but the boxers, and then back at Kenny. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “My turn.”
“Your turn what?”
“To pick your outfit for the night. You’re staying. I’m not asking.” Buck said it with such simple finality that Kenny couldn’t conjure a protest, even if he’d wanted to. Buck walked past him, into the bedroom, and Kenny followed.
The bedroom was as ordered as the living room. A large bed with a navy duvet, more books on a nightstand, a window open a crack to the cool night. Buck went to a dresser, pulled out a pair of heather-gray sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt. The shirt, when he shook it out, had a peeling logo for a band Kenny didn’t recognize.
“These’ll swim on you,” Buck said, handing them over. “But they’re clean.”
Kenny took the bundle of fabric. It smelled like Buck’s house, like detergent and that faint, essential scent that was just him. “Thanks.”
“Bathroom’s all yours.”
Standing alone in the steam-softened bathroom, Kenny changed. The sweatpants were indeed comically large; he had to roll the waistband over twice. The t-shirt hung past his hips, the collar slipping off one shoulder. He looked at himself in the foggy mirror—a borrowed boy in a borrowed life.
When he emerged, Buck was already in bed, propped up on a mound of pillows, the covers pulled to his waist. The lamp on his nightstand cast a warm, low pool of light. He’d taken another painkiller; the bottle was next to a glass of water. His eyes were heavy-lidded but open, tracking Kenny as he crossed the room.
“You look good in my clothes,” Buck said softly.
“I look like a kid who raided his dad’s closet,” Kenny corrected, but he smiled.
He slid into the other side of the bed. The mattress dipped, pulling him subtly toward the center, toward Buck’s warmth. They lay there for a moment, side by side, not touching, listening to the sigh of the pines outside.
“Kenny?” Buck’s voice was rough with exhaustion.
“Yeah?”
“Today was… a lot. For you. The clinic. The station. All of it.” Buck turned his head on the pillow. His blue eyes were almost black in the dim light, utterly serious. “You didn’t run.”
Kenny turned to face him. He studied the lines of Buck’s face—the faint scar through one eyebrow, the stubble shadowing his jaw. “Where would I go?”
“Where would I go?”
The question hung, simple and undeniable, in the space between their faces. Buck’s expression shifted, the serious lines softening into something raw and open. He moved then, a deliberate wince forgotten, pushing himself upright against the headboard with his good arm. The duvet pooled around his waist.
“Come here,” he said, his voice a low scrape.
Kenny didn’t hesitate. He shifted across the sheets, the borrowed sweats whispering against cotton, and climbed into Buck’s lap, straddling him. The solid warmth of Buck’s thighs beneath him, the shocking heat of his bare stomach against Kenny’s clothed hips, sent a jolt through his system. He placed his hands on Buck’s good shoulder, feeling the muscle flex under his palm.
He leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It was a seal, a promise, a reclaiming after a day of fear and foreign spaces. Buck’s right hand came up to cup the back of Kenny’s neck, fingers tangling in his messy hair, holding him there. Kenny could taste the mint of toothpaste and something deeper, essential.
When they broke apart, breathing ragged, Kenny kept his forehead pressed to Buck’s. “If your left side still hurts,” he murmured, the words feathering against Buck’s lips, “don’t move it so much, okay? Just stay still. I’ll take care of you.”
He kissed him again, slower now, savoring the give and take. Then he began to trace a path downward with his mouth—along the strong line of Buck’s jaw, the corded tendon of his neck. He felt the steady, accelerated pulse there under his lips. He lingered in the hollow of Buck’s throat before moving lower, across the firm plane of his chest.
Kenny took one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue, grazing with his teeth. Buck jolted beneath him, a sharp intake of breath that wasn’t from pain.
“Christ,” Buck breathed, his head falling back against the headboard with a soft thud. His right hand tightened in Kenny’s hair. “You really like them, don’t you?”
Kenny answered by shifting to the other side, lavishing it with the same focused attention, his hand coming up to roll and tease the first between his fingers. He listened, learning the rhythms of Buck’s body—the hitch in his breath, the subtle arch of his back, the way his abdominal muscles clenched.
“Never knew,” Buck gasped out, his voice strained, “how sensitive they were. Not until you.”
Kenny hummed against his skin, a vibration of satisfaction. He continued his descent, mapping every inch. He kissed the dark bloom of the bruise carefully, a silent apology to the injured flesh, then moved past it. He spent long, torturous minutes tracing the defined lines of Buck’s abdomen with his tongue, dipping into the shallow well of his navel, learning the landscape of his hips.
Buck was trembling now, a fine, constant shake under Kenny’s hands and mouth. His fingers twisted in the sheets. “Kenny…”
“I know,” Kenny whispered against the taut skin just above the waistband of his boxers. He hooked his fingers in the gray cotton and drew them down, freeing him. Buck lifted his hips to help, a low groan escaping him.
Kenny took him into his mouth, slowly, relishing the weight and the scent and the utterly vulnerable feel of Buck coming completely apart under his ministrations. He set a rhythm that was all tease and delay, using his tongue, his lips, the flat of his hand where his mouth couldn’t reach. Buck’s praises and curses were a fractured, beautiful soundtrack above him.
After a while, Kenny drew off with a wet, soft sound. He pushed himself up, kneeling back, and quickly pulled the oversized t-shirt and sweats off his own body, tossing them to the floor. The cool night air raised goosebumps on his skin. He moved back into Buck’s space, kissing him deeply, letting Buck taste himself on Kenny’s tongue.
Buck’s right hand slid down Kenny’s spine, possessive and urgent. He tried to shift his weight, to roll them, his body instinctively seeking control.
Kenny broke the kiss, placing a firm hand on Buck’s good shoulder. “We can’t,” he said, his own voice husky with want. “We can’t move your arm around too much, remember?”
Frustration and heat warred in Buck’s blue eyes. He was panting, his body coiled tight. “Kenny—”
“Don’t worry.” Kenny leaned in, nipping at his lower lip. “We’re not stopping here.”
He reached for the nightstand, fumbling in the drawer Buck nudged open with his knee. He prepared himself quickly, the routine clinical against the fevered backdrop of their breathing. Then he guided Buck’s hands to his hips and sank down onto him in one slow, relentless slide.
They both cried out, a matched sound of relief and intense pressure. For a moment, Kenny just stayed there, seated fully, letting the sensation of being filled, of being connected so utterly, overwhelm him. Buck’s head was thrown back, the tendons in his neck standing out, his right hand gripping Kenny’s hip hard enough to bruise.
Then Kenny began to move.
He set the pace, a rolling, grinding lift and fall that dragged against every nerve ending. He was in control, but it was a control forged entirely for Buck’s pleasure, for his safety. He watched Buck’s face—the parted lips, the fluttering eyelids, the sheer wrecked wonder there.
Buck’s right hand slipped between them, wrapping around Kenny, his grip perfectly in time with Kenny’s movements. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a feedback loop of pleasure. Kenny rode him, varying his pace, slowing to a near-stop when Buck’s breaths became too ragged, then building again, drawing the moment out.
It wasn’t frantic. It was deep, and slow, and incredibly vast. The world narrowed to the creak of the bed, the slick sound of skin on skin, the broken syllables of each other’s names. Kenny could feel the coiling tension in his own gut, a desperate heat building under Buck’s skilled hand.
He finally let go with a choked-off shout, his body seizing as he came across Buck’s stomach and chest. The sight of it, the visceral proof of his own pleasure on Buck’s skin, ignited a final, fierce determination in him. Buck was close, he could feel it in the way his body tightened, in the ragged, pleading sounds he was making.
“Look at me,” Kenny managed, his movements becoming more purposeful, more direct. “Look at me.”
Buck’s eyes opened, blown dark and desperate. He held Kenny’s gaze as Kenny worked them both through the last unbearable waves. Buck’s climax was silent at first, a full-body shudder that arched him off the bed, his right hand falling away to clutch at the sheets. A raw, shattered sound followed, torn from somewhere deep within him.
Kenny slowed, gentled, until he simply collapsed forward, careful to avoid Buck’s left side. He rested his head on Buck’s good shoulder, their hearts hammering against each other in a frantic, slowing syncopation. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat and their shared breath.
They stayed like that for a long time, until the cool air began to raise new goosebumps on their damp skin. Buck’s right hand came up, clumsy with exhaustion, to stroke through Kenny’s hair.
“Okay,” Buck finally whispered, the word a puff of air against Kenny’s temple. “Okay.”
Kenny lay there, listening to the wild drum of Buck’s heart gradually slow under his ear. The heat between them was a living thing, cooling now, making the air in the room feel sharp. He became aware of the sticky mess on Buck’s stomach and chest, a tactile reminder of what had just happened.
“Don’t move,” Kenny mumbled into his skin.
He rolled off carefully, the sheets sticking to his legs. The floor was cool under his feet as he padded, naked, to the small kitchen. He found the paper towel roll by the sink and tore off a long section, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet cottage.
When he returned, Buck hadn’t moved. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep, the bruise on his shoulder a lurid splash of color in the low light. Kenny knelt on the bed beside him. He started gently, wiping the damp cloth over Buck’s abdomen. The motion was tender, cleaning.
Buck’s eyes opened halfway, a sliver of blue watching him. “Are you okays?” Kenny asked, the gentle mistake in the word slipping out, betraying his lingering worry.
A slow, exhausted smile touched Buck’s lips. “Always better after having sex with you.”
The tight coil of anxiety in Kenny’s chest, the one that had been there since the clinic parking lot, finally unraveled. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He tossed the crumpled paper towels toward the general direction of the floor and swung his leg over Buck’s hips again, not sitting back, just resting there, straddling him.
He leaned down and kissed him. It was soft, a bare press of lips, a communion. Buck’s right hand came up to cradle his jaw, thumb stroking his cheekbone.
“I really like you a lot,” Kenny whispered against his mouth, the words tasting true. “I really cannot resist you.”
Buck’s thumb stilled. He looked up at Kenny, his expression stripped of all its usual charming armor. “I can’t resist you too.”
They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing the same air. Kenny knew he should let him sleep. The painkillers, the exhaustion from the day, the physical toll of their intimacy—it all demanded rest. But the quiet permission in the room, the unguarded way Buck was looking at him, sparked a deeper, more curious hunger.
“I know I should let you rest,” Kenny said, his voice barely audible. “But can I ask you for a favour?”
Buck’s eyes, heavy-lidded and dark, held his. “Anything.”
Kenny felt the heat flood his face, a blush that burned from his chest to the roots of his hair. He was too shy to ask. The request felt immense, vulnerable in a way that even sex hadn’t been. He swallowed, gathered the courage from the very air between them, and let it out in a rush.
“I wanna explore and worship your body…now…taking my time.”
Buck just looked at him. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It filled with the weight of Buck’s past, the ghosts of old relationships, the dangerous nature of his job that taught him his body was a tool for endurance, not for reverence. He saw all that pass through Buck’s eyes. Then it cleared, leaving something soft and surrendering in its wake.
A slow smile, different from all the others, broke across Buck’s face. It was pure, unshielded assent.
“I’m all yours.”