But before I agree one hundred percent to stay, there's something I've been curious about. Something that's been nagging at me since he said he doesn't believe he deserves happiness.
"Ryan?" I prop myself up on one elbow, looking at him. "What happened? To make you think you're not worthy of happiness?"
His whole body tenses. Those gray eyes shutter closed, walls slamming back up so fast I almost regret asking.
"I never talk about this," he says quietly.
"You don't have to—"
"No." He takes a breath, and I can see him struggling. "You shared your shit with me. Fair's fair."
He's silent for a long moment, and I wait. Give him time to find the words.
"Afghanistan," he finally says, his voice rough. "Five years ago. My best friend Jamie and I were on a recon mission when everything went sideways. We got compromised, took heavy fire, had to retreat."
He pauses, jaw clenching.
"Jamie took a round to the chest during the retreat. Went down hard. I started to go back for him, but our CO ordered me to keepmoving. Said the mission came first, that we'd extract Jamie's body later."
Oh God. I can see where this is going.
"So, I kept moving," Ryan continues, and there's such pain in his voice it physically hurts to hear. "Completed the mission. Got the intel. Came back for Jamie six hours later, and he was gone. Taliban had taken the body. I never..." He swallows hard. "I never got to bring him home."
"Ryan, that wasn't your fault," I say softly. "You were following orders."
"Doesn't matter. I left him behind. Chose the mission over my brother." His hands curl into fists. "They gave me a medal for it. Told me I made the right call. But how can it be right when Jamie's parents never got to bury their son? When I dream about him every fucking night, wondering if he was still alive when I left? If I could have saved him if I'd just—"
"Stop." I place my hand over his fist. "You can't torture yourself with what-ifs. You made a choice in an impossible situation. That doesn't make you unworthy of happiness."
"Felt like it did. Still does sometimes." He looks at me, and his eyes are haunted. "After I got out, I drifted for a while. Couldn't hold down a job, couldn't connect with people. Couldn't look at myself in the mirror without seeing Jamie's face. Eventually found the Savage Riders through a friend who knew I had... particular skills they might need."
"And they helped you?"
"They gave me purpose. Structure. A mission that felt like it mattered. Protecting people instead of just following orders blindly."
I'm quiet for a moment, processing everything he's told me. "I'm sorry for asking. I didn't mean to make you relive—"
"It's fine," he interrupts, and he actually sounds like he means it. "It feels good to finally share that with someone. But I've also been used to surviving on my own for so long, I don't really know how to do it any other way."
"What about your parents?" I ask, because I might as well get all the heavy shit out in one conversation. "You mentioned they're in prison."
Ryan's expression hardens. "My father tried to kill my mother during one of their fights. Beat her half to death with a tire iron. She survived, testified against him, but then it came out she'd helped him hide a body from a previous assault."
Jesus Christ.
"They both got fifteen to twenty. Haven't seen or talked to either of them in five years. Cut all ties." He meets my eyes. "They spent my entire childhood beating each other, then claiming they loved each other. That's what love looked like in my house. Violence and obsession and toxicity. So yeah, I don't exactly have a great template for relationships."
I wrap my arms around him without thinking, pulling him close despite our naked, sweaty bodies. He stiffens for a second, then relaxes into the embrace.
"I'm sorry," I whisper against his chest. "I'm sorry for being such a bitch yesterday. I should have been aware that just because I'm suffering doesn't mean others aren't."
Ryan kisses my forehead, "It's fine. We're all carrying shit. That's kind of the point, right? Finding people who understand what it's like to survive things that should have destroyed you."
“We found each other.” I tell him and he smiles back.
I can still feel his cum inside me, warm and wet, bubbles trickling out of my pussy onto the already-soaked sheets. It feels fucking fantastic, but I really need to clean myself and pee before I get a UTI.
"I need to use the bathroom," I say reluctantly, pulling away from his warmth.
