It was me in there( 9-1-1 )

Bucks Therapy Session

(Just as a heads up, this is happening in the same day that Eddie had his breakdown, so Eddie is still at work at this point. Enjoy!!!)

Buck sat in his truck outside the therapist's office, his fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel. The building was a nondescript brick structure in the heart of the city—nothing fancy, just a regular office space tucked between a café and a bookstore. There was a small sign outside: "Dr. Valerie Peterson, Licensed Therapist." It looked calm. Safe. And that's exactly what he needed.

But despite the calm, the air inside his truck felt thick, suffocating. His chest tightened with every shallow breath, a constant reminder of the panic that had been steadily building in him over the past few months. He'd tried to keep going, to push through, but it had only gotten worse. The panic attacks, the spiraling thoughts, the crushing weight of his past and the new trauma from losing his mom... it was all too much.

This, however, was a step he couldn't back out of. The idea of therapy had felt like something only "weak" people needed when he was younger, but now, the thought of facing his feelings—of confronting everything that had happened—was terrifying.

He swallowed hard, staring at the office door. The therapist's name—Dr. Peterson—was printed in neat, professional font on the window next to the door. A part of him wanted to turn around and drive home, forget the whole thing, but another part of him knew that if he didn't walk through that door now, he might never be able to.

With a deep, shaky breath, Buck grabbed the door handle, and before he could second-guess himself, he opened the door and stepped out.

Inside, the waiting area was quiet and serene. Soft, ambient lighting washed over the room, the walls painted in a soothing shade of blue. A small bookshelf held books on mental health and self-help, a collection of tissues sat on a table, and a gentle scent of lavender filled the air. There was something inherently calming about it, but Buck couldn't shake the nervous energy crawling beneath his skin.

A receptionist, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, looked up from her desk and gave him a gentle smile.

"Hi, you must be Buck," she said, her voice warm and inviting. "Dr. Peterson is expecting you. She'll be right with you."

"Uh, yeah. Thanks," Buck mumbled, his words feeling like they barely escaped his throat. His hands were clammy as he shuffled over to the seats. He couldn't sit still, his knee bouncing involuntarily as his mind raced with a thousand thoughts. Should he even be here? Was he really ready to talk about everything? He still wasn't sure what to expect.

After what felt like an eternity of fidgeting in the waiting room, the door to the therapist's office opened, and a woman in her late forties walked out. She was tall, with short, dark hair and glasses perched on the edge of her nose. Her smile was warm and genuine, and the kind of expression that immediately made Buck feel like he was in good hands.

"Buck, it's nice to meet you," she said, extending a hand toward him. "I'm Dr. Peterson. Please, come in."

Buck took a deep breath and walked into her office. The space was cozy and unassuming, with plush chairs arranged in a way that made it clear this was not meant to feel like a clinical environment. Instead, it felt like a safe space to talk. The faint hum of a heater in the corner was the only sound besides the soft tapping of Buck's shoes on the hardwood floor.

As Buck sat down across from her, he felt his hands start to tremble. His chest tightened again, and he couldn't quite make eye contact.

"So, Buck," Dr. Peterson began, her voice soft but clear. "How are you feeling today?"