The sight of him between my legs, well, it’s going to live rent-free in my memory forever! He stared up, looking into my eyes, “Fuck, yes,” as he moved closer to my cock. Still staring at me, licking the tip before sucking my head into his mouth. “Oh fuck, Jackson, fuck, please.” I had no idea what I was pleading for.I’ve gone; it feels like I’m not on this planet anymore. Taking me deeper, I can feel myself losing control. “Fuck, you look so good right now.” Digging my hands in his hair, fuck, this is perfect, he’s perfect. “This is where you belong, fuck, Jackson,” he groans around my cock, sending pleasure shooting, I’m cumming before I even have the chance to warn Jackson.
68
Jackson
The gray light of dawn was filtering through the blinds of my bedroom. For the first time in my life, the king-size bed felt exactly the right size. Ryan was curled into my side, his back pressed against my chest, his breathing deep and even. The weight of him against me was the most grounding thing I’d ever felt.
I watched him—the kind of deep, uninterrupted rest that only comes when you’ve finally put down the armor. Last night wasn’t just a physical release; it was a total change in the game plan. The way he’d looked at me, like I was the only play in the book, had stripped away the “Joker” persona entirely. I didn’t need the mask here. I was just Jackson, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I was playing on my home ice.
My mind raced with questions I hadn’t been able to ask in the heat of the night. How did he get here? How did he manage to leave that world behind so suddenly, and more importantly,was he really ok? I could feel the tension still radiating from his muscles, even in sleep. I let my gaze wander over him, tracing the powerful lines of his back. He was breathtakingly beautiful, but it was the history written on his skin that made my chest ache with a fierce, protective love. Everything finally felt right, like a puzzle piece clicking into place after years of searching. Slowly, I pressed soft, lingering kisses to every mark I could find—the thin white lines on his arms, the jagged reminder on his shoulder. With every kiss, I made a silent vow: I was going to love every part of him until the noise finally let him go.
He stirred, a low rumble of a groan escaping him, and he shifted. His skin slid against mine with a friction that made my pulse jump.
“You’re awake,” he rasped, his voice rough and thick with sleep. He opened his eyes, and the guard was still down. No cold detachment, no hyper-vigilance. Just Ryan.
“I’ve been awake for an hour,” I admitted, my hand drifting over his back, feeling the heat radiate off him. “Couldn’t sleep. Too busy realizing you’re actually here.”
He laughed, a sound so genuine it made my chest ache, and pulled me into him, his legs tangling with mine as he fell back to sleep. The morning light didn’t feel like a transition; it felt like a beginning.
The smell of burnt bacon was absent today, replaced by the deep, rich scent of good coffee and the phantom salt of Ryan’s skin. I moved through my kitchen, utterly silent, hyper-aware of the man in my bed. He felt like a rare, fragile prize I hadn’t earned. I brought two mugs back and hovered in the doorway, just watching him. For the first time since he’d arrived, the sharp, defensive lines of his face had smoothed out, the constant tension drained from his jaw. He looked younger, softer, like the kid who used to sit on a bucket and draw ducks. My chest feltimpossibly tight as I realized he wasn’t flinching at the morning light or bracing for a sound.
Was he really sleeping this solidly because he finally felt safe with me? The thought was overwhelming—a staggering responsibility that made my hands tremble against the warm ceramic of the mugs. Last night felt perfect; it felt so right. Ryan is my missing piece, and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure he sees just how much I want him in my life. I finally sat down, the mattress dipping, and slid back into bed with my soldier. Fuck the coffee, it could wait.
69
Ryan
Waking up next to Jackson again as the sun began to filter through the blinds was a slow, impossible return to a life I hadn’t earned. My body, which had been a tight coil of hyper vigilance for years, felt slack and heavy, surrendered entirely to the deep, silent sleep I hadn’t realized I’d been missing. The air in this room didn’t smell of diesel or sand or fear; it smelled like Jackson, clean, faintly masculine, and laced with a hint of last night’s passion. It was the smell of safety. I opened my eyes to the soft light, and the first thing I saw was Jackson’s face buried in my hair, his arm thrown possessively over my waist. He was still asleep, his breathing a steady, comforting anchor against the lingering hammering in my chest. I noticed a stack of my letters beside the coffee on the side table. Had he got up and made these for us?
I looked down at his arm, tracing the line of his muscle with my thumb, and let the sheer, staggering reality of the situationwash over me. I was home. Not just in a building, but in a person. The moment was so perfect, so impossibly quiet, that the ghosts started to stir. A faint memory of the explosion, the sharp, coppery tang of blood, the crushing weight of Brody’s body, it all tried to creep into the edges of my mind. But this time, they didn’t win. This time, I had a real weapon, the solid, warm weight of Jackson. His presence was a physical barricade against the terror.
I turned slightly, propping myself up on an elbow to look at him. His mouth was soft in sleep, completely stripped of the public grin he wore for the cameras. He was just Jackson, vulnerable and beautiful. My gaze dropped to his ribs, where the skate-wearing duck was permanently etched into his skin. The tattoo was a testament to his belief in the guy who drew ducks, a belief so strong he made it a part of himself. That simple piece of ink was the most profound act of love I’d ever witnessed. Jackson stirred, his eyes fluttering open, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face, the kind he only wore for me. “Morning, soldier,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. I couldn’t speak; the words caught in my throat. Instead, I leaned down and kissed him, a long, reverent press of my lips to his. It wasn’t the desperate urgency of the night before; it was a promise. I was here. I was safe. And I was never leaving his side.
70
Ryan
“Shower?” Jackson murmured, his voice a low vibration that made my heart stutter. I nodded, the simple domesticity of the invitation feeling like a profound gift. The bathroom was a sanctuary of slate and glass, filled with the hum of the water and the immediate, enveloping warmth of the steam. We stepped into the large walk-in shower together, and for a moment, we just stood there, letting the hot spray wash away the residual grit of the desert and the lingering tension. Jackson took the soap, his hands slow and deliberate as he lathered my skin. He didn’t just wash me, he worshiped me, his touch a gentle reclamation of the body I’d treated as a weapon for so long. I let my hands trace the formidable shape of his shoulders and the firm, smooth expanse of his chest. The intimacy of the shared space, the scent of expensive sandalwood soap, and the weight of the water created a bubble where the war couldn’t reach. In the steam,with our foreheads pressed together, we weren’t a soldier and a hockey player; we were just two men finding our center.
Dressed in a pair of Jackson’s grey sweatpants and a hoodie, we began to explore the house. I followed him through the hallway, my bare feet silent on the cool hardwood. The house was an extension of the man, open, bright, and filled with a quiet strength. Large windows looked out over the Pacific, the gray morning light turning the water into a sheet of polished steel. I stopped in the living room, my gaze falling on a collection of framed photos on the mantle. There was Jackson with a younger version of Logan, both of them grinning and covered in ice shavings, and a smaller photo of an elderly couple in Vegas, their eyes full of pride. This wasn’t a barracks or a temporary detachment; it was a life built on permanence and genuine connection. I walked over to the large bookshelf that lined the far wall. It was filled with messy stacks of hockey biographies and a small, hand-carved wooden duck sitting on top of a stack of records. I reached out, my thumb tracing the smooth wood of the duck. Jackson had created a world that had room for me, a world where the guy who drew ducks wasn’t a secret to be guarded, but a man to be celebrated. Looking at the cozy furniture and the kitchen, I had a sudden, staggering realization. This wasn’t just Jackson’s world. If I chose it, this could be my home. The sense of permanence was overwhelming, a beautiful, terrifying anchor in a life defined by the noise of the desert. I looked at Jackson, who was standing by the window watching the tide, and I knew the quiet pond wasn’t just a daydream anymore. It was right here.
Jackson’s house was too loud. Not with sound, but with lack of sound. The silence was deafening, demanding to be filled by the noise I had learned to ignore, the constant, low-frequency hum of a war zone. I sat on the couch, wrapped in one of Jackson’s worn hockey hoodies, watching him pack asmall gym bag. When a car horn blared unexpectedly from the street outside, I jumped, my head snapping toward the window. My heart rate spiked, a sudden, familiar tightness clenching my fists. I wasn’t back in the field, but I was close. I gripped the coffee mug until my knuckles were white. Jackson saw it instantly. He walked over, didn’t say a word, and just sat next to me. He didn’t touch my shoulder or ask what was wrong. He just took my hand, intertwining our fingers, grounding me with the steady, heavy pressure of his life. “It’s just Seattle, Ryan,” he said, his voice a low, soothing vibration in the quiet. “Just traffic.” The noise of the city felt too close, too vulnerable, but holding Jackson’s hand felt like holding the anchor line back to safety. I knew the moment I let go, the current would pull me under. I can do this, I can be strong, I have to do this, I can’t lose Jackson, too.
71
Jackson
Standing by the grill on the deck, my Tidal Teals hat pulled backward, I was feeling more relaxed than I had in years. Ryan was perched on the edge of the couch in the living room, wrapped in one of my old hoodies, staring out at the Seattle fog. His stillness was unnerving, a stark contrast to the explosive energy I was used to on the ice. I checked my phone, practice skating started in forty minutes. I grabbed my gear bag, the heavy, comforting scent of the rink already clinging to the nylon, and paused in the archway. Leaving him alone felt like leaving my goalie hung out to dry, but I knew he needed the quiet. I walked over, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head. “I’ve left a note,” I murmured. “I’ll be back after the morning skate. The cookies are in the pantry. Ryan, remember to breathe.” He nodded once, acknowledging the instruction without lookingaway from the window, his focus as sharp. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken concern.
The air outside was crisp. I pulled into the practice facility parking lot, my mind still half anchored to the man on my couch, and spotted Logan and Donovan leaning against the hood of Donovan’s SUV. They looked like the same guys I’d known for years, but everything about my world had shifted. “He’s at my house,” I said before Logan could even open his mouth. Logan’s grin was uncharacteristically soft. “He’s safe, Hayes. Now get your head in practice. Coach is on a warpath today.” Donovan nodded toward the entrance, his expression steady. “One step at a time, Jackson. He’s here, that’s the main thing.” I grabbed my bag, the weight of the jersey finally feeling like a choice rather than a mask.
72
Ryan
I stood staring out at the crashing sea, still wrapped in Jackson’s hoodie; it smelt like him, that was the temporary anchor against the swirling unease in my gut. I tried to focus on the plush dinosaur on the kitchen counter, the one he’d mentioned in a letter, or the ridiculous little cluster of Tidal Teals magnets on the fridge. Mundane. Domestic. Safe. But my mind refused to settle. In the barracks, I was surrounded by a dozen men, their breathing, their snoring, their cleaning rituals, a low-frequency hum of shared tension. Here, every creak of the floorboards felt like a magnified step in the dark. I ran a hand over the rough fabric of the hoodie, feeling the texture in a desperate attempt to ground myself. Jackson’s voice was the only thing that felt real. His gentle instruction, “Breathe,” felt impossible to follow. I was waiting for the sound. Waiting for the door to burst open, waiting for the yell, the flash, the terrible, metallic scent of blood and dirt. I couldn’t relax the tension coiled in my shoulders. Iwas alone, and in my line of work, alone meant dead. I just needed him to come back. I just needed the noise of the real world to drown out the noise in my head.
Then, a small, soft weight bumped against my ankle. I jumped, my heart hammering against my ribs, hands flying to my side before I realized it was just Puck. The little guy had emerged from under the sofa, tail twitching like a lightning rod. He let out a tiny, questioning meow, completely unimpressed by my state, and pounced on my sneaker, doing that ridiculous bunny-kick thing. It was absurd that a tiny, furry, chaotic troublemaker was trying to dismantle my shoelaces while I was trying to hold my soul together. He tripped over his own paws, tumbled onto his back, and blinked up at me with those giant, innocent eyes, as if to ask why I was standing there looking like the world was ending instead of playing with him. For a second, the roar of the explosion in my head faded, replaced by the sheer, grounded absurdity of a cat fighting a shoe. I sank down to the floor, my shoulders finally dropping.
