Ryan
The air outside was cold, wet, and final. I had spent all day driving aimlessly, the thought of papers, re-enlistment, and discharge, a sickening weight left in Jackson’s kitchen. The mission was no longer the desert; the mission was finding the courage to stay, but the fear of letting go of the soldier’s identity was suffocating. I parked the truck two blocks from Jackson’s house, killing the engine. The base was behind me, the deadline passed, and I hadn’t signed anything.
I walked the final stretch toward the house, every step a commitment to a life I didn’t know how to live. I reached the front door, my hand shaking as I inserted the key. When the lock clicked, I saw him, a dark silhouette on the couch, not moving, staring out at the rain. He was waiting, and I knew that if I put the uniform back on, this man would be lost to me forever.
I walked straight past the living room, heading for the kitchen. I didn’t say a word. The choice was no longer abstract;it was paperwork, and Jackson was my witness. I picked up the re-enlistment documents, the life of vengeance, the noise, the ghosts, and tore them. I didn’t stop until they were nothing but jagged, worthless scraps. The finality of the sound, a sharp rip in the quiet, was the loudest thing I’d done since stepping away from the line of fire.
I turned back. Jackson was there, having crossed the room silently. “I’m done, Jackson,” I whispered, the words steady and true. The weight lifted instantly, replaced by a profound, terrifying peace. “The mission is over. I’m staying at the pond if you’ll have me.” He covered the distance between us, pulling me into his body, a fierce, protective embrace that settled every frantic nerve in my body. His scent, clean, safe, home, filled my lungs. There were no more ghosts in this moment, only the steady, certain rhythm of his heart beneath my ear. The soldier was finally putting down his gun. “I’m home, Jackson,” I murmured, wiping away the tears that were streaming down his face. “I love you, I’m never leaving.” There are no more letters to write, and no more lines to throw into the dark. We are finally both here, in the quiet of our own home, and I am choosing the life Brody always wanted for me. I held Jackson fiercely, breathing in the scent of his skin and the promise of a thousand Sunday mornings. I am finally home, and I’m never letting go.
Jackson grabbed my face, kissing me fiercely, “I love you so fucking much”. Pulling back “Show me” taking a big breath “Show me how much you love me, fuck me Jackson” Jackson stared at me, his eyes completely wild “Your going to need to repeat that Ry”, “I said, show me how much you love me, fuck me, fuck me wearing nothing but this slutty hat.” I pushed him against the kitchen counter, Jackson suddenly on me, kissing down my neck, hands grabbing frantically needing contact with skin. “Bedroom, right the fuck now” I rasp, grabbing his thighs, wrapping them around my body, like fuck am I breaking contactnow! Carrying Jackson felt like I had precious cargo in my hands, until we reached the bed… pushing him down gently, “get naked now,” I demanded. “Yes, sir!”, always a fucking brat! Our clothes disappeared in no time at all, both naked and panting for more. Grabbing the lube, I start to work myself open, Jackson kissing my scars the entire time. His strong hands grabbed my hips and flipped us. “I thought I was meant to be fucking you? I’ve been wanting to worship this body for so long, let me take care of you now.”
90
Jackson
He’s staying, he’s choosing me, us, every possible emotion I felt today is coming out now. I kiss down his body over his pecks, fuck I’m licking his sculpted six pack. I lean into his body, licking up the salty drops pre-cum. I can tell Ryan’s hands want so badly to pull my hair, but my cap’s staying on. “Fuck I want you inside me, and fuck, I’m not going to last long if you carry on.” Sucking on his tip, I carry on stretching him open. “I’m ready. I’m so fucking ready for you, baby.” Where did baby come from? I don’t fucking care, but I love it. Stroking my cock with lube, I position myself between Ryan’s legs. “Are you sure?” I questioned. “I swear if you’re not gonna be inside me in the next thirty seconds,” I slowly push in, fuck he’s tight. It feels so fucking good, “Jackson, fuck baby, you feel so good! Fuck I’m gonna come so quick!” Fuck I need to slow this down. Kissing up Ryan’s neck, taking his mouth, both moaning fucking delicious sounds. Ryan’s legs wrapped around me, pushing me deeper, letting meknow the pace he’s ok with. The sound of our bodies crashing together, over and over, “I’m close, Ry,” “me too, baby.” I take him over and over, nothing but pure lust between us, “you’re fucking amazing.” I can feel the cliff, fucking stars explode as if I feel Ryan’s release, his body shuddering. I can’t breathe, heavy breaths fill the room. “I love you. I love you so fucking much. Don’t let me go, Jackson,” and I don’t. We fall asleep wrapped around each other.
The ice was my sanctuary, but tonight it felt like a spotlight. Ryan was somewhere up in the viewing suite, safe from the roar of the crowd, but his presence was a heavy, silent weight on my shoulders. I skated onto the ice for warm-ups, forcing the usual grin, hamming it up for the cameras that tracked the team’s ‘joker.’ I slammed the glass, waved at a few cheering kids, and generally performed the role Jackson Hayes, the defenseman, was expected to play.
But the second the puck dropped, the performance dissolved. I didn’t play for the cameras tonight. I played for the man who gave himself fully to me last night. Every shift was focused, precise, stripped of the usual flashy risk-taking. I kept watching, not just the opposing forwards, but to ground myself in the purpose of the game. I could hear the roar of the crowd, forty thousand people screaming, but I filtered it. I skated past the bench. Logan slapped my glove. “Hayes, you’re a brick wall tonight. What are you drinking?” I just shrugged, a small smile touching my lips. I didn’t need to be the Joker for him. I didn’t need the mask.
Donovan was pinned deep in our zone, the opposing team’s winger broke free and took a clean shot. I dropped low, blocking the puck with my body. The impact was a jarring, familiar pain, but I hardly registered it. I cleared the rebound off the boards, launching the puck safely down the ice. The crowd cheered, thenoise a brief thunder. I looked up toward the viewing suite, knowing Ryan wouldn’t flinch at the chaos. He would see the focus, the stillness in the center of the storm. I tapped my chest twice, a silent message: I’m here. The real me. I wasn’t playing for millions, I was playing for the promise of a quiet life, and for the man who saw past the mask. The man who loved me for simply being me.
91
Ryan
I stood in the doorway of the Tidal Teals locker room, leaning against the cold metal frame, watching the man I loved perform. Jackson was in the center of the room, still in his sweat-stained gear. He was cracking jokes about Logan’s lack of defensive awareness, high-fiving the younger rookies, and giving the hovering media crew exactly the kind of charismatic, easy-going soundbites they lived for. To anyone else, he looked like the golden boy of Seattle hockey, the joker who never let the pressure of the game break his stride.
But I saw it. I saw the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, the way his shoulders were held a fraction too tight, and the frantic, forced energy behind every laugh. It was a mask. It was the same kind of heavy, suffocating armor I had worn every single day in the desert, the version of yourself you present to the world so they don’t see how much you’re actually hurting inside.
A fierce, protective heat flared in my chest. Jackson had spent such a long time trying to pull me out of my own head, and now I realized he was carrying his own silent noise. He played the clown so no one would look too closely at the man who felt entirely alone in a crowded room. He had given me a quiet place where I didn’t have to be a soldier, and I realized in that moment that I wanted to be that same sanctuary for him. I wanted to strip away the jersey and the performance and just let him be Jackson. I was going to hold the line for him now, protecting the man behind the mask with everything I had.
Catching my eye, Jackson winked at me, pulling his cap on backward, sweat streaked and so fucking edible. Yeah, he knew exactly what that did to me!
92
Jackson
The front door opened before I could even get the pizza box down on the counter. Logan walked in first, holding a massive six-pack, followed by Donovan, who was carrying a bag full of chips and a concerned look.
“You weren’t at the practice facility today, Hayes,” Donovan stated, but his tone lacked the usual “Captain” edge.
“Yeah, sorry. Had a thing,” I deflected, knowing Ryan was already tucked away in the living room, probably trying to focus on the noise of the TV and not the noise in his head.
“We figured ‘the thing’ needed some tactical support,” Logan announced, dropping the beer on the counter. He immediately spotted Puck, who was sitting on the back of the sofa, judging him. “Hey, you furry little menace. Still stealing salmon?”
Logan was loud, but he knew how to read a room. He walked past me, heading for the living room where Ryan was alreadysettled. I tensed, ready for Ryan’s usual flinch when confronted by a person who was too much.
“Splash, my man!” Logan didn’t touch him, just gave him a salute. “We heard you’re an espresso expert now. Is that true? Because Donovan here is threatening to buy one, and I need a witness.”
Ryan smiled a real, unarmored smile. “It’s an M4 trigger pull, Logan. All about the pressure.”
Donovan finally walked in and sat in the armchair, setting the tone. “We’re not here to talk stats or the war, Ryan. We’re here to watch the Stars vs. Devils game. Pure, meaningless, civilian noise. Jackson says you haven’t seen a good hockey game since that debacle we had against the Bruins.”
They didn’t force him into conversation. They just settled around him, creating a protective, casual perimeter. Logan sat on the floor, passing Ryan the remote to control the volume. Ryan took it, the simple gesture of control relaxing his shoulders instantly.
As the game started, Donovan leaned forward, speaking quietly, his voice cutting through the sports commentary on the TV. “The unit always has your back, Ryan. Even if it’s a hockey unit. I know you’re transitioning. My brother took three years before he could stand in a line at the grocery store. Take the time, man. You have come so far in such a small space of time, but you’re still part of a team.”
