“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” I murmured, pulling him closer until the heat of his body started to anchor my own racing thoughts, “the only shoe dropping today is Puck jumping off the fridge. And if you mess up this shot of espresso, the only casualty will be my taste buds.” He huffed a small, genuine laugh, the sound I lived for. “Now, try again. Level the grounds, apply the pressure, and let’s see if we can get me caffeinated.” I leaned in and kissed him long and slow, the steady pressure of my lips effectively pulling him out of the dark and grounding him back in the quiet safety of our kitchen.
85
Ryan
Jackson insisted on the walk, claiming I needed “vitamin D and exposure therapy”. I hated the movement of people that kept setting off the alarms in my head, but the beach near his house was wide open, the horizon stretching out into an endless gray. Jackson was a solid, physical anchor at my side, his presence a constant, low-level drone of safety.
We walked along the shoreline, the air smelling of salt and clean ocean instead of dust and diesel. I kept my eyes scanning the dunes, mentally calculating the distance to the nearest cover, a habit I couldn’t break. “It’s just the water, Ryan,” Jackson murmured, reading my tension over the steady, rhythmic pulse of the waves.
“No one here is trying to hurt you.” A rogue wave slammed into a pile of rocks nearby with a sudden, explosive crack. My whole body flinched, my hands tensing into fists as I prepared for the blast. Jackson stopped instantly, pulling me gentlyagainst a massive piece of driftwood half-buried in the sand, shielding my body with his own.
“Breathe,” he commanded softly, the familiar instruction cutting through the spike of panic. “It’s just the tide, Ry. That’s it.” The sound of the nickname, Ry, hitting my ears for the first time since Brody used it, was a physical punch to the gut, but not in pain—in pure, overwhelming connection.
Brody had been gone for eight months, and in that single syllable, Jackson had closed the loop. He didn’t ask me to be brave or to stop being a soldier. I rested my forehead against his neck, pulling his scent, clean, crisp, and wholly civilian, into my lungs while the sound of the waves settled back into a peaceful lull.
The adrenaline slowly retreated. I pulled back, nodding once. “Let’s go look at the ducks,” I said, pointing toward the calmer water, giving him my unarmored, grateful smile.
86
Jackson
I woke up to the silence of the house, which, after two months with Ryan, now felt wrong. I reached out, finding the space next to me cold, and immediately a knot of dread tightened in my stomach. I threw on a pair of sweats and found him in the kitchen. He was standing by the counter, gripping the granite so hard his knuckles were white, staring down at a few official-looking papers, the kind with crests and heavy black ink that screamed military. He hadn’t heard me come in. The air around him felt thick, charged with the same tension I’d felt the morning he arrived. This wasn’t about Brody anymore; this was about choosing a life.
I came up behind him, not touching, just standing. “Ryan,” I murmured, his name a soft anchor in the quiet room.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t turn. “I have to make a choice, Jackson. By tomorrow.”
“I know what those are,” I said, my voice steady. “But I need you to listen to me for one second, without the soldier’s brain taking over.” I reached out and gently laid my hand flat on his back, feeling the tense coil of muscle under my palm. “We started this with honesty. We asked to be seen. We asked to be taken seriously. And for the first time in my life, I felt both of those things with you. I felt it when you were thousands of miles away, and I feel it now when you’re standing right here.”
I shifted my hand, running it slowly up to the back of his neck, giving a gentle squeeze. “If you walk away, you’re not just abandoning me, you’re abandoning the man who draws ducks. The man who showed up on my doorstep with a cookie and a terrifying vulnerability.”
I stepped around him, pulling his head into my chest, holding him fiercely. “You said you didn’t know if you were strong enough to choose this life. You are. The strongest thing you can do is put down the gun and pick up a coffee mug. Stay here, with the noise of the waves and a crazy cat, and let me love you.” I tightened my grip, burying my mouth in his hair. “I love you so fucking much, Ryan. I’ve been in love with the paper and ink version of you since the first letter, and the real, breathing, man in my arms? He’s everything. Don’t go back to the dust. Stay home, stay with me, where you belong.”
87
Ryan
The two worlds were tearing me in half. The soldier in me screamed for the fight, for the closure I could only get by returning to the desert where I lost my best friend. But the man Jackson loves, the one who drew ducks, just wanted to stay curled in the curve of his body, listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart. I didn’t know if I was strong enough to choose life, or if I was too much of a coward to abandon the only family I had left. Leaving Jackson felt like the ultimate act of self-destruction, but staying felt like a betrayal of Brody’s memory. I was completely confused. Did I go back and finish the fight that got Brody killed, or did I stay in the safety of Jackson?
The official separation papers lay on the counter between us. They weren’t just bureaucracy; they were two distinct futures, both demanding I sign on the line. One signature meant reenlistment, the return to the life that killed Brody, and the pursuit of vengeance. The other meant discharge, a final,irreversible choice to walk away and embrace the quiet pond. The deadline was so close. What the fuck am I going to do?
“I have to go back to base,” I said, the words hanging heavy in the small, quiet kitchen. “Tonight. I need to sign the paperwork.” The decision tore at me. The quiet, gentle life with Jackson was everything I’d ever wanted, the promise Brody had talked about. But the anger was still there, a hot coal in my gut demanding vengeance for my friend. “I keep thinking about the unit,” I confessed. “They need me. Brody needs me to finish it.” Jackson tightened his embrace. “Brody wanted you home, Ry. He wanted you to have the cabin, the quiet, the family. That’s the real mission, not revenge.” He pulled back, tears rolling down his face, his eyes holding mine. “I’m not asking you to choose me over your life, but over your pain. Your life is here now.” He was right. I nodded, feeling the gravity of the choice. The fight was inside me now, not overseas. I needed to walk away from his safety for one last, terrifying moment to choose. I gently pulled away from Jackson’s arms, took one final look at the unsigned re-enlistment papers sitting next to the absurd plush dinosaur on the counter, and walked out the door. The mission was no longer the desert; the mission was finding the courage to stay.
88
Jackson
The deadline was hours past, and the only sound in the house was the relentless drumming of rain against the windows. I hadn’t moved from the couch in the living room, staring out at the blurred street lights through the heavy Seattle fog. Every minute that ticked by was a second of Ryan’s life being reclaimed by the military, by the dust, and by the ghost of vengeance he was chasing for Brody.
The official separation papers lay on the kitchen counter, unsigned. He had left with the intention of making his final choice, of signing one of the forms, re-enlistment or discharge, at the base before the midnight deadline. The air in the house was thick with my own silent terror. I was afraid of losing the man I loved, not to distance, but to a fundamental shift in his soul. If he went back, he would completely lose the gentle, quiet man who drew ducks on every letter, the one who found peace by the ocean. He would become the Special Forces soldier whobattles alone, encased in an armor too heavy to ever take off again. He would become the noise.
I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to silence the frantic fear in my head. The tears came with vengeance since Ryan walked out the door; it felt like he had taken my heart with him. I pictured him walking back into the barracks, putting the heavy gear back on, the man I loved disappearing forever behind the call sign ‘Splash’.
The suspense was unbearable. I jumped at the sudden snap of a tree branch outside, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm in my chest, every nerve straining for the sound of an engine, a footstep, anything that would tell me my life hadn’t just ended.
Then, there it was. The faint, unmistakable sound of a key turning in the front door lock. The metallic click was deafening in the silence. I froze, every muscle tight, not daring to breathe, waiting for the final verdict. The door eased open, letting in a draft of cold, wet air and the dark silhouette of the man I had been waiting for.
89
