“You want to know about the ‘distraction’?” Jackson said, his voice ringing clearly through the microphones. He stood up, but he didn’t address the reporter. He walked past the podium, past the confused PR team, and stopped right in front of me.
He reached out and took my hand. His palm was warm, solid, and completely unafraid.
He pulled me out of the shadows and into the blinding light. The cameras went wild, a frenzy of shutters that would have made me want to scream six months ago. But Jackson’s thumb was tracing small, calming circles against my knuckles.
“This is Ryan,” Jackson said, his voice steady and proud. “He’s not a distraction. He’s the man who holds me up. He’s the reason I play this game with the heart I do. He’s my partner. And if you have a problem with that, then you have a problem with the entire team and me.”
I braced for the blow, the judgment, the whispers, the hate. But as I looked out at the reporters, their expressions shifted from predatory curiosity to something else, confusion, then respect, then silence.
I looked up at Jackson. The noise of the world was still there, buzzing and bright, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like an enemy. I didn’t need the reinforced vault. I didn’t need the shadows. I had the only piece of home I’d ever needed, right here, standing in the light.
“I’m ready,” I whispered, the words barely audible over the hum of the equipment, but Jackson heard them.
“I know,” he smiled, and for the first time, the “Joker” mask was gone. This was just Jackson. Mine. “Let’s go home, Ry.”
98
Jackson
The sun was dipping low over the Pacific, painting the horizon in the same bruised purples and golds that I remembered from the day Ryan finally came home. It had been exactly one year since that day in the valley—the day that nearly broke him.
Ryan had come a long way. The war was still in him, but the panic attacks were rare, and the hyper-vigilance was manageable. One of the best things that happened was his friendship with Nate, Donovan’s brother. Nate had returned from his final deployment a few weeks ago, and he and Ryan started an unspoken brotherhood. They ran the beach together every morning, not talking much, just moving. They had a language of silence I didn’t share, but they helped each other with the noise. Just last week, I’d overheard Ryan laughing while Nate tried to teach him how to use an old school map and compass without GPS. Ryan was teaching Nate how to cook “mess hall gourmet” in return. It was the best kind of therapy.
I stood on the deck, my hands deep in my pockets, gripping the small velvet box so hard my knuckles ached. The house was quiet, the only sound the rhythmic shushing of the tide. Ryan was down on the beach with Cory and Willow, the three of them chasing seagulls and yelling at the top of their lungs.
I’d watched him heal, I’d watched the “soldier mask” slowly dissolve. I’d seen him go from a man who jumped at a slamming door to a man who could sleep through the night, who could laugh at a bad joke, and who finally,finallylet himself be loved without checking the exits.
He walked up the dunes toward the house, his hair wind tousled, a stray piece of seaweed clinging to his shirt. He looked like a civilian. He looked like my partner. He looked like the man who was finally, officially, safe.
I walked down to meet him on the sand. The air was cool, smelling of salt and damp earth.
“They’re finally worn out,” Ryan said, nodding toward the house where the kids had collapsed in the sand. He stopped in front of me, his eyes searching mine, that familiar, guarded tension completely gone.
“I know what day it is,” I said, my voice quiet.
Ryan stiffened, just a fraction, his gaze shifting to the ocean. “I know,” he replied. “It’s… It’s better this year. It doesn’t feel like the world is ending. It just feels like a memory.”
I stepped into his space, my hands finding his waist. I could feel the solid, steady beat of his heart through his shirt, a rhythm that had become the soundtrack of my own life.
“I didn’t choose today because I wanted to remember the loss,” I said, my voice steady. “I chose today because it was the day the world tried to take you from me, and I spent the last twelve months realizing that I’m never, ever letting that happen again.”
Ryan looked at me, his expression softening, the ghosts of the valley fades into the salt air.
I didn’t drop to one knee; that wasn’t us. I just took his hand, the one with the little duck tattoo he’d got to match mine, and held it against my chest.
“I’m done with the noise, Ry. I’m done with the empty houses. I want the quiet. I want every single morning with you, and I want the messy, loud ones too.” I pulled the velvet box from my pocket, but I didn’t open it yet. I just kept his hand in mine. “I spent my life thinking I had to play a role to be worth something. But you taught me that being seen is the only game that matters. Will you let me hold the line for the rest of our lives?”
Ryan’s breath hitched. He didn’t say a word; he just pulled me into him, his arms winding around my neck with a strength that pinned me to the spot. He was crying, but it wasn’t the broken, hollow weeping of the man I’d met in the parking lot. It was the tears of a man who was fully, completely home.
“Yes,” he whispered, his forehead resting against mine. “Every shift. Every game. Every day.”
I opened the box. The ring was simple, a band of brushed titanium, unassuming and strong. I slid it onto his finger, the metal cool against his skin. It wasn’t a tactical tool, and it wasn’t a jersey. It was just a promise.
He looked at it, then back at me, that small, secret smile, the one he saved just for me, spreading across his face.
“So,” he teased, his voice cracking with emotion. “Does this mean I’m officially on the team?”
I kissed him, a long, slow press of lips that tasted of salt and the future. “You were on the team the second you drew that first duck, soldier. I’m just making it official.”
