Buck Shepherd

Buck sat on the couch with his girlfriend Erin next to him, exhaling sharply through his nose. He was nervous. Not the kind of nervous that came from first dates or job interviews—this was heavier, quieter. He shifted slightly, the leather squeaking under his jeans, and adjusted how he was sitting for the third time in under a minute. His hands fidgeted together, then smoothed across his thighs, then fidgeted again. It was all muscle memory now, ways to burn off the nerves without letting them spill out. He wasn’t just meeting someone new—he was meeting someone important. Erin’s kid. The one name that always lit up her face when she talked about them, even in moments she didn’t realize she was smiling. The one person in her life who held her heart long before he had, and likely always would. Buck respected that. He even loved it. But it didn’t make this any less terrifying.

He glanced at the hallway again. Any moment now.

His mind went to the things Erin had told him—little anecdotes, stories shared in passing, pieces of a person he hadn’t met yet. The way they liked their coffee. The music they listened to when they were stressed. The art, especially the art. Buck remembered Erin showing him a charcoal drawing once, something dark and beautiful and so layered it stuck with him for days after. He’d been floored by the talent. That had been one of those moments where he realized just how deeply connected Erin was to her kid. She spoke about their struggles, their strengths, their past—never as a list of facts, but with the tenderness of someone who had fought hard for every ounce of trust between them. And now here he was, trying to earn even a sliver of that trust. He knew better than to expect instant closeness. That wasn’t how trust worked. It had to be built, brick by brick, and he was ready to put in the work. But that didn’t stop the voice in his head from running through worst-case scenarios like a bad movie montage.

What if he said something stupid? What if he came off as fake? What if his usual jokes fell flat and made things worse?

Buck sat up straighter and ran his hand through his hair again, then let it drop against his leg with a soft thump. His pulse thudded against the base of his neck, not fast, but insistent. He could feel his palms starting to sweat. He wiped them on his jeans and took a slow breath in through his nose, out through his mouth, like Erin had taught him. He could do that. Be steady. Be present. Be real. He heard footsteps now, soft against the floor. Laughter. A murmur of voices. Then, silence. Buck stood slowly. He didn’t want to make the moment bigger than it needed to be, but he also didn’t want to be caught sitting there like a lump. His stomach tightened as the hallway filled with movement, and then a figure rounded the corner. Buck’s expression shifted automatically into something warm, but not forced. He stood with his hands at his sides, resisting the urge to cross his arms or shove them into his pockets. When their eyes met, he smiled—not wide, not over-eager. Just genuine. "Hey," he said, his voice low but steady. “I’m Buck. Been looking forward to meeting you." He didn’t hold out his hand immediately. He gave them the space to choose—to step forward or stay back, to engage or not. He watched their face closely, not in judgment, but in readiness. He wanted to get it right. Because this wasn’t just about being Erin’s boyfriend. This was about showing up. Really showing up.

For her. And for them.