Chapter 5: Tuesday Sunset
The Tuesday sky was a slow bleed of color, orange seeping into the cool blue like a watercolor left in the rain. Kenny wiped a damp cloth over the small wrought-iron table on his balcony for the third time, rearranged the two wine glasses, then stepped back inside to check the bottle. A Pinot Noir, mid-range, something the guy at the shop had said was “approachable but interesting.” He hoped it wasn’t a stupid choice.
The doorbell rang, a soft, traditional chime that always seemed too loud in his quiet apartment. Kenny’s heart jumped. He took a breath, smoothed his shirt, and opened the door.
Buck stood there, holding a brown paper bag from the bakery down the street. He’d changed out of his station gear into dark jeans and a soft-looking navy henley. He smelled like soap and fresh air. “Hey. I brought reinforcements. Sourdough and olive tapenade. In case the poetry gets too heavy.”
“Perfect,” Kenny said, stepping aside to let him in. “Come out here, the view’s starting.”
The balcony was just big enough for the small table and two chairs. Buck leaned on the railing, his broad shoulders blocking a portion of the dying sun. “Wow. Okay. This is better than the coffee shop.”
Kenny joined him, their arms almost touching. Below, the cobblestone street was empty save for an old tabby cat picking its way along a garden wall. The lavender scent was stronger up close, sweet and herbal. “It’s why I rented the place. The inside is basically a box with a bed.”
“A box with a great porch,” Buck said, turning to lean his back against the rail, facing Kenny. “So. ‘Daddy.’ Lay it on me. I’ve been mentally preparing.”
They sat. Kenny poured the wine, his hands steady despite the flutter in his chest. The glasses clinked softly.
“It’s not subtle,” Kenny began, swirling the dark liquid. “It’s raw. It’s about a father, but it’s also about patriarchy, oppression, the ghost of a man that haunts everything. She uses this nursery-rhyme rhythm, but the words are like shards of glass.”
Buck listened, his eyes fixed on Kenny’s face as he spoke about the brutal imagery, the shoe as a coffin, the vampire, the Luftwaffe. He didn’t flinch. He took a slow drink, then said, “The line that got me was ‘I have always been scared of you.’ Not hated. Scared. That’s… heavier.”
“Yeah.” Kenny felt exposed, but in a way that was electric, not painful. “It’s about fear as a foundation. Something you build your life on top of without ever realizing the ground is rotten.”
Buck was quiet for a moment, watching the last sliver of sun disappear behind the distant river hills. The world turned a deep, velvety blue. “My dad wasn’t a Nazi. He was just… a guy who worked too much and came home too tired to talk. The fear was quieter. It was the fear of becoming him. Of being so empty at the end of the day that you have nothing left for the people waiting for you.” He took another sip. “I joined the fire department, and for a long time, I thought that made me different. All action, all connection, teamwork. But then you have the bad days, and you come home, and the quiet is so loud. And you realize you might have just built a louder version of the same empty house.”
The confession landed between them, as tangible as the bread Buck had brought. Kenny didn’t offer platitudes. He just nodded, absorbing it. “The tulips in the hospital.”
“Exactly.” Buck’s smile was faint, grateful. “So, what’s the antidote? In the poem, she says she’s through. Is there a ‘through’?”
“I think the act of writing it was the through. Naming the monster. Giving it a shape with words so it can’t shape you anymore.” Kenny felt a rush of boldness. “Maybe the antidote is building a house with someone who understands that some days, the quiet is going to win, and that’s okay.”
Their eyes met and held in the twilight. The hum of the town seemed to recede.
After a beat, Buck broke the gaze, shifting in his chair. “Okay, that was heavy. You promised me a romance novel. The one with the fiery feud.”
The shift was a relief, a return to playful oxygen. Kenny laughed, a real one. “Right. The hockey players.” He fetched the book from inside, its cover bright and suggestive. He handed it to Buck.
Buck leafed through it, a smirk growing. “So they’re rivals. And they… overcome their differences?”
“Violently, and then very, very enthusiastically.” Kenny felt a blush but powered through. “It’s about secret affairs, public animosity, and the terrifying risk of wanting someone so much it feels like a weakness. It’s surprisingly well-written. All tension and release.”
Buck looked up from the page, his blue eyes glinting in the light from Kenny’s living room window. “Tension and release, huh? Sounds technical.”
“It’s a core principle of narrative,” Kenny said, his voice a little breathless.
“And of other things.” Buck closed the book and set it aside. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The space between them shrank. “So you read this stuff for the narrative principles.”
“Mostly. Sometimes for the… research.”
Buck’s laugh was a low, warm sound. “What’s your research telling you right now?”
The air changed. It became thick and sweet like the lavender, charged like the moment before a summer storm. Kenny could see the pulse in Buck’s throat. “It’s telling me I should have bought a second bottle of wine.”
“I don’t need more wine,” Buck said, his voice dropping.
They were talking about nothing and everything. The past few weeks, the poems, the coffee, the quiet understanding—it all funneled into this single point on a dark balcony. Kenny’s mouth was dry.
Buck’s gaze traveled over Kenny’s face, down to his hands clutching his wine glass, then back up. He moved, just slightly. His hand, large and capable, came to rest on Kenny’s knee. The touch was deliberate, warm through the fabric of Kenny’s jeans. A simple point of contact that felt like a lightning strike.
Kenny froze, then exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The flutter in his chest exploded into a wild, beating rhythm.
“Is this okay?” Buck asked, his thumb making the smallest, most devastating arc against Kenny’s kneecap.
All Kenny could do was nod. He let go of his wine glass and placed his own hand over Buck’s, lacing their fingers together. Buck’s hand was rough, scarred in places, infinitely solid.
“Your research,” Buck murmured, leaning in closer. The scent of him was everywhere now. “What’s the protocol for this part?”
“The protocol is notoriously under-documented,” Kenny whispered, his own voice foreign to him.
“Good.” Buck closed the final distance.
The kiss wasn’t tentative. It was a confirmation, a sigh of relief, the first solid answer they’d shared. Buck’s lips were softer than Kenny expected, his stubble a faint, pleasant abrasion. Kenny’s hand came up to cup Buck’s jaw, feeling the strong line of it, and Buck made a low, approving sound against his mouth that sent a shock straight through him.
It was sunset and lavender and the faint, metallic taste of wine. It was the quiet, not loud at all now, but deep and welcoming, holding them both. When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, the world had fully turned to night. The first stars were out, pinpricks in the vast, dark blue.
Buck didn’t move his hand from Kenny’s knee. Kenny didn’t let go of his face.
“So,” Buck breathed, his voice husky. “That’s one way to discuss literature.”
Kenny laughed, a shaky, happy sound. “I think we might have just written a new chapter.”
“Yeah.” Buck pulled back just enough to look at him, his eyes searching Kenny’s in the dim light. “I’d really like to see what happens next.”