60
Letter
Splash,
I talked to her again. Anna.
She called me last night just to check in. She told me Brody was so damn proud of you. He loved you, Soldier. He didn’t care who you loved; he just cared about keeping his brother safe. I’m watching over Anna and Cory while you’re fighting.
It makes my chest ache to know you finally found a safe place to breathe over there, only for the world to rip it away from you so fast. I know you must feel like the door just slammed shut on who you really are. I know you’re surrounded by guys right now, pretending to be someone you’re not, carrying the weight of Brody’s death completely alone because you can’t tell them why it hurts so deeply.
But please don’t let the dark take you over. Brody knew the real you, and so do I. You can scream, you can break, you canbe completely yourself with me. I can carry the weight for both of us until you can breathe again.
Just breathe, my soldier. I’ve got you.
Jackson
61
Ryan
The session was short, sterile, and cold. I sat opposite the Major, a clinical psychiatrist who had seen too much to flinch. I hadn’t slept in five days this time, and my eyes were burning. I gave her the same blank stare I’d given the rest of them, expecting the usual useless pep talk. She slid a packet of temporary separation orders across the desk. “You’re not fit for duty, Sergeant Carter,” she stated, her voice flat, clinical. “The pattern of flashbacks, the hyper-vigilance, the escalating episodes of rage, it’s unmanaged. The risk to the unit is now greater than you.” I didn’t argue. “You’re sending me home?” “Emergency leave. Unspecified duration, temporary status. Your kit is packed. You fly out in six hours. This is not a disciplinary; this is a medical containment decision. You need a period of decompression in a clean, quiet environment.” She paused, her expression finally softening. “You’re chasing a ghost, Sergeant. You’re going to get yourself killed, and we are not sending another box home. Go.” I took theorders, the paper surprisingly heavy in my hand. I wasn’t being dismissed; I was being released by a system that couldn’t contain the damage. I walked out of the office feeling nothing but cold relief. No vengeance, no mission, just a ticket out. Jackson’s letters were the only thing that felt real. I had six hours, and I needed to get to Seattle and find the quiet pond before the desert broke me completely.
62
Ryan
The flight home was a sensory vacuum. I’d spent twelve hours crammed into a military transport, the drone of the engines the only familiar sound, and now I was on a civilian jet, the air too clean, the seats too soft. Every person next to me was smiling, scrolling on a phone, or reading a magazine. I couldn’t stop scanning the cabin, cataloging faces, looking for anything that didn’t belong, my muscles coiled tight under the thin civilian jacket. But the hyper-vigilance wasn’t just about tactical threats; it was a deeper, more visceral panic.
For the first time in my life, I was heading toward a man I loved without the shadow of a bunk or the safety of a redacted envelope to hide behind. The fear of being exposed, a reflex I’d honed for nearly a decade in the military, was screaming at me to lock down. Being gay felt like walking into enemy territory without a vest. I was navigating a new identity, and every steptoward meeting Jackson felt like a terrifying betrayal of the armor I’d built.
When the plane finally touched down in Seattle, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. The humidity hit me first, followed by the perfume of the airport, too sweet, too many artificial smells layered on top of each other. I kept my head down, forcing myself to walk slowly, resisting the military rhythm of “move fast, don’t be a target.”
When I finally reached the hotel room, anonymous and high up, away from the street noise, I stood in the middle of the room, completely paralyzed. The quiet was louder than any gunfight. I just needed to survive the night before I saw Jackson. I needed to find the man who drew ducks and bury the soldier deep under the bed.
63
Jackson
“Hayes! We’re heading to Sidelines bar. Come on, man, you have to come and celebrate with us!” Donovan shouts across the noisy locker room.
Logan walks up, tossing his arm casually over my shoulder. “Come on, just one drink. Then you can go straight home and write another letter to your man.”
I sigh, giving in. “Fine, but only one! And he’s not my man yet.”
Sidelines bar is absolutely packed to the brim when we arrive. Looking at the dense crowd, I immediately wonder if I can just sneak away right now unnoticed.
“Nope, don’t even think about it,” Logan shouts over the loud music, reading my mind. He grabs my arm and forcefully drags me toward a booth tucked into the back corner. “Look, Cap’s already at the bar getting the beers. Just stay for one, come on, Hayes!”
I glance up toward the bar to see Donovan waiting for the drinks, currently talking to a very attractive man. Suddenly, the stranger turns his head, and our eyes lock across the crowded room.
“Fuck.” Fuck, did I say that out loud?
“What’s up?” Logan asks, instantly looking in the exact direction I’m staring. A smirk spreads across his face. “Ohhhh… so you’renotgoing straight home to write to your man?”
I suddenly want to get up and walk entirely out of this bar, away from the man who has taken it upon himself to openly, intensely stare at me. Why do I get the distinct, uncanny sense that I somehow know him? I can feel a physical, magnetic pull drawing me to him. I can feel his eyes tracking me.
All I can hear is Logan laughing loudly next to me. “Piss. I need a piss,” I say abruptly, standing up to head for the men’s room.
