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Buck is about to walk out of the airport. He can’t do this. He won’t. But then a hand—a big, warm hand—settles on his shoulder.
“Hey, uh—”
Buck turns, and standing there is the most beautiful man Buck’s seen in his entire life. A week’s worth of stubble across his jaw and cheek, a strong nose, and the deepest, prettiest brown eyes he’s ever seen, framed by mile-long lashes. Buck’s breath catches. Buck’s not into men, but holy shit, if he was—he’d be into this guy.
Well. He is kinda into this guy. Well. That’s—
“I’m here with my kid,” the guy continues, throwing a thumb over his shoulder and pointing toward where a blonde-haired, smiling kid with red glasses and crutches is standing. The kid lifts a hand and waves. Okay. Even if Buck is into the guy—kid usually means wife. Damn. “He’s got CP. We’ve done this song and dance a thousand times. You want a hand?”
“Sir,” the man cuts in, “this is a private discussion—”
Buck, who really was trying not to cry before, feels like he’s fighting a losing battle now. His eyes are a little wet, and his hands, gripping his crutches, are shaking just a little. “Fuck. Yeah. Please.”
OR Eddie Diaz vs American Airlines.
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