Chapter 17: The Book Return
The flickering bulb above the front counter buzzed like a trapped insect. Ten minutes to close. Kenny was wiping down the coffee machine, the sharp scent of vinegar cleaner cutting through the usual papery fragrance. The romance section rustled—Mrs. Henderson, deciding between three nearly identical covers featuring shirtless men clutching historical damsels. She’d been here twenty minutes. Kenny smiled patiently.
The bell chimed, a sharp, clean sound.
Buck stood in the doorway, backlit by the deep indigo of the early evening. He wore a soft-looking charcoal hoodie and jeans. In his hands, held almost carefully against his chest, was the blue volume of Heartstopper. He looked like he’d come straight from somewhere, his hair tousled by wind or his own hands.
Mrs. Henderson glanced over, her eyebrows rising. Kenny felt a ridiculous spike of adrenaline, mundane and potent.
“Hey,” Buck said. His voice was a little rough.
“Hey. Rescue call?”
“No. Day off. Just… had somewhere to be.” Buck’s eyes found Kenny’s and held. He tapped the book’s cover with his thumb. “I finished it.”
Kenny stopped wiping. The cleaner smell suddenly felt too harsh. “Yeah?”
“Last night. Started after dinner and just… kept going.” Buck took a few steps into the store. The worn floorboards creaked under his weight. “I didn’t expect it to be like that.”
Mrs. Henderson, sensing a shift in the atmospheric pressure of her usual browsing experience, finally made her choice and approached the counter. Kenny rang her up mechanically, his fingers fumbling the credit card machine. All his focus was tunneling to the man leaning against the New Arrivals shelf, turning the book over in his hands.
“You have a good night, Kenny,” Mrs. Henderson said, her tone dripping with benevolent curiosity.
“You too, Eleanor.”
The door closed behind her with a final-sounding click. The buzz of the faulty bulb filled the sudden quiet. Kenny locked the door, flipped the sign to ‘Closed’. The outside world muted to shapes and passing headlights.
It was just them now, in the pool of uneven light.
“What didn’t you expect?” Kenny asked, leaning back against the counter. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them.
Buck pushed off the shelf. He walked closer, not to the counter, but to the space beside it, where they’d eaten on the floor. He looked down at the spot, then back at Kenny. “The quiet parts,” he said. “The worrying. The texting. The way they just… looked at each other and everything got louder and quieter at the same time.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s nervous. It makes you feel nervous for them. I was stressing about a comic book character’s birthday party.”
A laugh broke out of Kenny, startled and warm. “Right? Nick’s internal panic is a whole mood.”
“It’s so accurate it’s painful.” Buck’s smile was crooked, relieved. “And Charlie… God, the way he thinks he’s too much. That he’s a burden.” The smile faded. Buck’s gaze dropped to the book. “That got me. In the gut.”
The air changed. It wasn’t just about the story anymore.
“Yeah,” Kenny said softly. “It does that.”
Buck looked up. “You said it felt real. You were right. It doesn’t feel like a fantasy. It feels like someone remembered it all and wrote it down. The good and the scary.”
“That’s why it’s good.”
They stood there for a moment, the confession of the book hanging between them. Buck had not just read it; he had felt it. He’d let it get under his skin. Kenny wanted to map the journey that realization had taken behind Buck’s blue eyes.
“So,” Buck said, setting the book gently on the counter. It landed with a soft thud. “You got the next one?”
The question was light, but his eyes weren’t. They were asking for more.
Kenny’s pulse did a quick, double-time beat. He nodded, trying to keep his face neutral. “Might do.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” Buck’s grin was back, teasing. “You’ve had it tucked away somewhere since I left with this one, haven’t you?”
“No,” Kenny said, then immediately shrugged. “Okay, yes. Filing cabinet. Bottom drawer.”
Buck’s laugh was a low, warm sound in the quiet store. “Show me.”
Kenny led him to the back office, the space feeling suddenly intimate and too small. He could feel Buck’s presence behind him, a solid warmth. He opened the bottom drawer. There they were, volumes two, three, and four, stacked neatly on the receipt paper.
He pulled out volume two, the green cover cool in his hand. He held it out.
Buck took it. His fingers brushed Kenny’s. A simple, electric point of contact. He didn’t let go of the book immediately, his hand encompassing Kenny’s for a breath. Two breaths.
“I’ll take better care of this one,” Buck said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You didn’t damage the first one.”
“I read it too fast. It deserved more time.”
“Sometimes you just need to devour a story.”
Buck’s gaze was unwavering. “Yeah. Sometimes you do.”
Kenny withdrew his hand slowly. The air in the cramped office was warm, tinged with dust and the faint, clean smell of Buck’s hoodie. “You want a bag?”
“Nah. I’m good.”
Buck waited by the front door, the new book held at his side. In the dim light, he looked less sure, the easy confidence softened into something more tentative.
In the dim light, he looked less sure, the easy confidence softened into something more tentative. He shifted his weight, the new book tapping against his thigh. "You eaten?"
Kenny blinked. "What?"
"Food. Have you had any? I don't think a day-old cookie from my truck counts." Buck’s voice was casual, but his shoulders were tight. "There's that new taco truck parked over by the old feed store. Heard it's stupidly good."
Kenny's stomach chose that moment to growl, a low, traitorous sound in the quiet. He hadn't eaten, too wrapped up in the possibility of this exact moment. "I could be persuaded."
"Great." Buck’s smile returned, warmer now. "Let's go before they sell out of the carnitas. I'm buying."
The night air outside was cool, a sharp contrast to the store's contained warmth. Buck’s truck, a well-used Ford with a speckling of mud along the wheel wells, was parked right out front. The drive was short, filled with the low hum of the radio and Buck’s quiet commentary on his crew’s failed attempt at baking a cake that afternoon.
The feed store lot was strung with café lights, casting a wobbly golden glow. The taco truck was a vibrant burst of color and noise, music spilling from its service window alongside the incredible scent of searing meat, cilantro, and lime. A small crowd clustered nearby, holding red plastic baskets.
Buck ordered for them both, a rapid-fire request for a mix of everything. He paid before Kenny could even reach for his wallet. "My idea," he said, waving off the protest.
Their order came up fast, two baskets loaded with three tacos each, glossy with salsa and piled high. Buck took them, nodding his thanks. He didn't head for the picnic tables.
Instead, he walked to the back of his truck. He set the baskets down on the tailgate, which was already down. "Best seats in the house," he said, patting the worn bed liner. "Less crowded."
Kenny hoisted himself up, the metal cool through his jeans. Buck climbed up beside him, their legs dangling over the edge. The lot spread out before them like a casual theater—people laughing, kids chasing each other through patches of shadow, the truck’s generator humming a steady bass note.
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the flavors exploding, messy and perfect. Kenny licked a drop of spicy verde from his thumb. "This was a good idea."
"Told you." Buck took a huge bite, crumpling the paper wrapper. He stared out at the scene, chewing thoughtfully. The café lights reflected in his eyes.
Kenny felt the bubble of the question rise, insistent and dangerous. He tried to swallow it down with another bite of taco, but it was useless. The entire evening—the returned book, the hidden volume, this—had a specific shape. He needed to know its name.
He wiped his hands on a thin paper napkin, buying a second. Then he just said it, his voice quieter than the music from the truck. "So is this a date?"
Buck turned his head. He didn't look surprised. A slow, knowing smirk lifted the corner of his mouth, his eyes crinkling at the edges. He held Kenny's gaze, letting the question hang in the greasy, delicious air between them.
"What do you think?" he said, his tone low, a playful challenge layered over something utterly sincere.
A wave of heat rushed from Kenny’s chest to the roots of his hair. He knew his face was blazing, a furious, undeniable red. He looked down at his half-eaten taco, at his own hands, anywhere but at Buck’s triumphant, beautiful face.
He looked down at his half-eaten taco, at his own hands, anywhere but at Buck’s triumphant, beautiful face. The buzz of the generator, the chatter of the crowd, it all fused into a dull roar in his ears. He focused on the crinkle of paper, the cool metal beneath his thighs, any solid anchor.
“I think,” Kenny said slowly, gathering the shreds of his courage, “that if it was, you’d have said yes already.”
Buck’s laughter was quiet, a soft exhale. He balled up his wrappers, a precise, tidy movement. “Yeah. Okay. It’s a date.” He said it like it was simple, like he was confirming the time. “Our second, technically. Picnics behind counters count.”
Relief, sweet and heady, washed through Kenny’s veins. He finally met Buck’s eyes again. The playful challenge was still there, but underneath was something steadier, a direct current. The confession of the book was still with them, that shared vulnerable language.
They sat in the aftermath of the admission, finishing their food. The silence was different now, charged but peaceful. Buck’s shoulder brushed Kenny’s as he leaned back on his palms, staring up at the few stars visible past the café lights.
A memory surfaced, vivid and unbidden—the weight of Buck against him in the store’s narrow aisle, the press of the shelf, the startling heat of his mouth. The casual violence of that first kiss. It had lived in Kenny’s skin for days.
Kenny grew bold, the intimacy of the truck bed and the confessed date blurring his usual filters. He kept his eyes on the distant traffic lights, cycling from red to green. “So…how are your nipples?” He cringed internally at his own bluntness. “Are they still…bruised and sensitive?”
Buck choked on a sip of his soda. He coughed, laughter and surprise fighting in his throat. He turned to stare at Kenny, his blue eyes wide. “What?”
“What?”
Kenny’s face was on fire. He stared straight ahead at the glowing taco truck, its garish colors swimming in his vision. He forced the words out, each one a clumsy, mortifying brick. “I’m just checking… from that night. Where I spent… hours. On your nipples. And armpits. And belly button.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “Jesus.”
A beat of silence stretched, taut and strange.
Then Buck made a sound—a punched-out, breathless laugh. Kenny chanced a look. Buck’s face was flushed a deep, warm pink, visible even in the uneven light. He wasn’t looking at Kenny either; he was studying his own hands, knuckles white where they gripped the tailgate’s edge.
“Yeah,” Buck said, the word rough. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, you did.”
He finally turned his head. His expression was a complex map of embarrassment, amusement, and a raw honesty that made Kenny’s stomach flip. “It’s fucking distracting, is what it is.” He shook his head, a rueful gesture. “For a few days after, whenever I wore my turnouts…”
He paused, as if weighing the cost of the confession. The generator hummed.
“The suspenders,” he continued, his voice lower. “That rough canvas material. It runs right over… everything. Even with a t-shirt between, it’s all I could feel.” He gave a slight, involuntary shudder at the memory. “Got goosebumps every damn time I suited up. My lieutenant asked if I was coming down with something.”
Kenny listened, captivated. This was a secret physics, a map of consequence he’d drawn without knowing.
“And the t-shirt,” Buck went on, a soft, disbelieving laugh escaping him. “The standard issue ones are this cheap, scratchy cotton blend. Never noticed it before. But after that night?” He looked right at Kenny, his blue gaze unguarded. “Felt like sandpaper. Gave me goosebumps too. Just putting the damn thing on.”
The admission hung in the night air, more intimate than any kiss they’d shared so far. It was a testament to impact. Proof that Kenny had left a mark, however invisible, on the man’s daily, dangerous reality.
Kenny didn’t know what to say. “Sorry” felt wrong. “Good” felt predatory. He settled on the truth, whispered. “I think about it all the time.”
Buck’s throat worked. He nodded, just once, a sharp dip of his chin. He understood.
They sat in the loaded quiet, the festive atmosphere around them now a distant spectacle. The tacos were forgotten, cooling in their baskets. The point of contact between their thighs on the truck bed felt like a live wire.
Finally, Buck moved. He gathered the trash, his movements methodical. He hopped down, the truck rocking slightly, and disposed of it in a nearby barrel. When he turned back, he didn’t get back up. He stood on the asphalt, looking up at Kenny.
“We should go,” he said. His voice had regained some of its usual steadiness, but his eyes were still dark, unquiet.
“Where?”
“Anywhere that isn’t a public parking lot.” He held out a hand.
Kenny took it, sliding off the tailgate. Buck’s grip was firm, grounding. He didn’t let go as he led them back to the passenger side. He opened the door for Kenny, a simple, deliberate gesture.
Buck got behind the wheel but didn’t start the engine immediately. He just sat, hands on the wheel, staring through the windshield. The cab was dark, close. Kenny could hear his own breathing.
“That night,” Buck said, not looking at him. “It wasn’t just… physical for me. I need you to know that.”
“I know,” Kenny said. Because he did.
Buck nodded again, absorbing that. Then he started the truck. The engine roared to life, and he pulled out of the lot, the cafe lights shrinking in the rearview mirror, taking them deeper into the unfamiliar streets of the night, the ghost of rough canvas and goosebumps riding silently between them.