Ryan looked at him, his dark eyes wide with surprise at the unexpected empathy. “Thanks, Donovan.”
“Don’t thank me,” Donovan chuckled, grabbing a slice of pizza. “Just don’t let Jackson burn down the kitchen trying to make you those double chocolate cookies. That’s your mission now, Ryan.”
I watched Ryan laugh, a genuine, deep sound. He was safe, included, and completely unarmored. The armor was off,replaced by the scent of warm pizza and the sound of two of my best friends welcoming him home.
The sun rose over Tidehaven with a clarity I hadn’t felt in years. I sat at the kitchen island, watching the steam curl off my coffee, and for the first time, I didn’t feel the weight of the mask. The “Joker,” the guy who had to keep everyone laughing to hide the hollow ache in his own chest, was finally, thankfully, out of a job. I didn’t need the jokes or the performance anymore because the real Jackson was sitting right here, and he was being seen by the only person who mattered.
Ryan was spread out on the living room floor, surrounded by a mess of brochures and printed catalogs. He was looking at local colleges and industrial design firms, his brow furrowed in that same intense concentration he used to give the coffee machine. The soldier was still there in the set of his shoulders, but the man who drew ducks was the one making the decisions now.
But his focus wasn’t entirely on the future. He had his phone open to a video call with Anna, her face framed by the sunny kitchen of their home. They weren’t just grieving together; they were building a tangible legacy. Ryan had told me they were starting a non-profit in Brody’s name—The Quiet Pond Project—focused on creating small, safe retreat spaces for recently discharged soldiers dealing with PTSD. Anna would handle the legal and fundraising side, while Ryan, with his design eye and military experience, was sketching out the first prototype for a small, simple cabin. It was his way of turning the guilt and vengeance into the quiet life he had always sought.
Our life together wasn’t a promise anymore; it was a confirmed reality. No more counting down the days of a deployment, no more lines thrown into the dark. We were both here, anchored in the quiet of our own home. I walked over andsat on the floor next to him, resting my hand on the small of his back. He didn’t flinch. He just looked up and gave me that unarmored smile, the one that proved the quiet pond was finally ours to keep.
93
Ryan
The routine of a Saturday morning with Jackson was a strange mix of domestic peace and high-stakes terror. The night before, I’d slept soundly, anchored by the weight of Jackson next to me, but the moment my feet hit the floor, the civilian world became a threat assessment. We stopped at a local coffee shop. It was a busy Saturday morning, and the simple act of standing in line felt like a high-stakes mission. I have to keep telling myself that I have more good days than bad, but today might be a bad one.
The doors slid open, and the noise slammed into me. The simple sensory environment was an assault. The hiss of the espresso machine sounded like steam escaping a damaged radiator, and the frantic chatter of the crowd was a chaotic white noise that threatened to pull me under. My eyes immediately began cataloging. Too many people, too many faces, too many bags being rustled, and the unpredictable movement of kids running between tables.Threat level: uncontrolled.I felt thesweat start to prickle at my hairline, my heart hammering against my ribs, instantly kicking into an emergency rhythm. I knew this feeling, the walls closing in, the urge to bolt, to find the nearest exit and lean into the cold safety of a brick wall. But this time, I didn’t freeze. I was grounded in the present, but the sensory overload was overwhelming.
Jackson stood just a few inches behind me, his presence a silent promise that he’s got me. He didn’t crowd me, but I could feel the heat of him, a steady, domestic shield against the civilian noise. He didn’t ask if I was ok, didn’t make a big deal of it, he just rested his large hand lightly on the small of my back, a constant, solid point of contact that wasn’t a warning, wasn’t a threat—it was justJackson. It was my safe word in the chaos.
I focused on the list in my head:Coffee. Cream. Get out.I concentrated on the gentle pressure of his hand, using it as a pulse to regulate my breathing. I could still feel the panic, a sharp, cold spike, but I was walking through it, not sinking into it. This was progress. A few weeks ago, I would have thrown his keys back and barricaded myself in the bathroom. Today, I was still standing.
When the barista finally called my name, “Splash,” Jackson’s quiet insistence on that name always made me smile. Even now, I reached for the cup with a hand that only shook a little. Less than last time. A tangible win. I had survived the morning, and Jackson was right there to walk me back to the quiet. “Mission accomplished, Soldier,” he murmured into my ear, his breath warm, before gently guiding me through the crowd toward the sunlit sidewalk.
I took a deep, steadying breath of clean air, the noise of the coffee shop fading behind me. The panic was receding, not gone, but manageable. I still had moments when the world felt too loud, but with Jackson holding the line, the gaps between thepanic were growing longer, and my ability to stand in the fire was getting stronger.
94
Jackson
“My mom’s pulled out the good china and is threatening to make me wear a shirt with a collar,” Donovan joked into his phone. “Look, it’s just my family. And my brother, Nate, will be there. You two need to talk. Bring Ryan.”
“It’s a lot of people,” Ryan murmured, his gaze sweeping the crowded backyard as we walked through the gate.
“Relax. We’re safe,” I assured him, pointing to a man in a Mariners jersey grilling massive steaks. “That’s Donovan’s dad, the gatekeeper of all things food.”
Donovan met us by the deck. “Glad you made it.” He nodded toward a man sitting quietly in a lawn chair, nursing a beer, wearing a worn Army cap. “That’s Nate. He’s my little brother. Go say hi.”
Ryan hesitated for a moment, the soldier in him recognizing a kindred spirit. He walked over slowly. I watched from adistance as Nate looked up, his face breaking into a gentle, knowing smile.
“Splash, right?” Nate asked, taking a slow sip of his beer.
Ryan blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Just Ryan, now. And you must be Nate.”
“Cole told me you’re getting used to the quiet,” Nate said, his voice low and steady, not quite a question, more of a statement of shared experience. “It’s the hardest part, isn’t it? The silence is deafening.”
“It’s torture,” Ryan admitted, sinking into the chair next to him.
Nate just nodded. “Yeah. Well, it takes time. Took me three years to stop checking the ceiling for holes. The trick is finding a new sound to focus on. For me, it was the sound of my kid’s laughter. For you,” he paused, nodding toward me, “it’s probably the sound of Jackson’s espresso machine breaking.”
Ryan let out a genuine, unforced laugh, the sound making my entire body relax.
Just then, Willow, covered in grass stains and demanding an ice cream, darted over, latching onto Ryan’s leg. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Did you know that Nate used to be a super spy, too? And he says ducks don’t eat potato salad.”
“She’s right, they don’t,” Ryan confirmed gravely. He looked at Nate, a deep, silent understanding passing between them. He was included. He was seen. He wasn’t the project; he was family. He was home.
