Chapter 19
Jackson
Whitaker Seafood’s glass-windowed lobby turns into a brightly lit aquarium after dark, and Ben, pacing tight little circles, phone in hand, is the only fish on display.
The moment Jackson steps out of his Corolla, Ben is already through the doors, closing half the parking-lot distance before Jackson even shuts his door.
“You made it,” Ben exhales, more relief than greeting. He jerks his chin toward the loading dock, where a grimy MarineSelect rig squats under the floodlights. Workers feed pallets into its hold. “There’s another waste shipment going out tonight.”
Ben’s voice is flat, almost bleak, like this isn’t exactly the break Jackson’s been chasing. He’ll have everything: plates, route, and dump site. It’s iron-clad proof. He’s already picturing the photographs lining up alongside his notes.
“I’ll stay on the truck,” Jackson says, half to himself, brain already sprinting ahead. “You dig around Tom’s office and—”
Ben’s face doesn’t crumple, it just freezes as he shuts off visible emotion with practiced quickness. It’s the resigned, barely-there shift of someone used to being set aside, left to deal with a problem on his own. Jackson’s stomach bottoms out as he watches it.
Ben’s trust is part of this story, as much as the documents or the photographs. It deserves to be handled just as carefully.
“Ben,” Jackson says firmly, head shaking once. “I want you with me. I want to do this right.”
And God, that part’s so fucking true it almost makes his throat close.
“We’ll follow the truck together. Come back, hit Tom’s office after. We’ll still get where we need to go.”
The tension eases out of Ben’s face, just enough to show how much it matters. “Yeah. Okay.” And then, because he’s Ben, he immediately extends something back, almost sheepish. “I’ll drive.”
Jackson slides into the passenger seat without argument.
Outside, workers shout instructions as metal clangs and forklifts beep.
Inside the Jeep, the cab feels close. Ben’s foot bounces lightly against the floor mat; Jackson taps a pen against his notebook, watching the loading dock.
Or trying to. His eyes keep drifting back to Ben.
The truck is the story. But the man sitting beside him, the one who risked everything to hand it to him, is why Jackson’s really here.
“So, uh, there’s this Christmas party tomorrow night,” Ben says suddenly.
It’s such an unexpected curveball, Jackson’s sure he misheard. “A party?”
“Company thing. I’ll text you the details,” Ben says quickly. “It’s cheesy, but… everyone will be there. Tom. The board. The managers. Most of the staff. It’s the one time you could look at all of them in one place, maybe pick up something useful.”
There’s a little hitch in his voice, though, something earnest, shy, like that’s only half the reason.
Oh.
The feeling catches Jackson square in the chest. It’s not jagged like the guilt he’s been carrying since Boston, but gentle, deep, a want so fierce, it penetrates to his very core.
In that moment he knows redemption isn’t just about getting the story right.
It’s about the wild, dangerous hope that he could have more than just the story.
He lets a teasing smile pull at the corner of his mouth, holding onto the moment the only way he knows how. “Before I RSVP, what’s the dress code? We talking ugly Christmas sweater? Or blazer that says ‘I am a small child with very earnest opinions on glitter and water conservation?’”
Ben laughs, and it’s so good, Jackson can barely breathe. He wants to memorize that sound. He wants to be the reason for it over and over. He wants to build his whole damn life around it.
“It’s cocktail attire,” Ben says, cheeks pink, eyes bright. “So if those are your only options, I’d stick with the blazer.”
“Open bar?”
“Two drink tickets, then cash.”
Jackson tuts. “Dance floor?”
Ben gives a tiny shrug. “If you’re brave enough.”
“Brave enough?” Jackson echoes lightly, though his fingers flex slightly against his knee. He’s sure he could hold onto this closeness between them forever if he just squeezed tight. “Ben, if ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’ comes on, you are going to witness things you will never recover from.
“But as long as you’re okay with a little secondhand embarrassment,” he pauses, just long enough for the teasing to fall away, for the truth to slip in, “I’d be happy to come.”
Ben ducks his head, biting down a smile so pleased, so soft, Jackson feels it light up every corner inside him.
A part of him knows that it’s lunacy to allow himself this.
He’s fallen for a source before a line of story has been published.
It’s everything he never would have allowed himself to do five years ago.
Today it doesn’t even feel like a choice.
His hand twitches again, aching to reach across the seat, to brush his thumb on the corner of that smile and tell Ben how much he wants to keep that look on his face safe. Keep it his.
But before the thought can cross all the way into motion, the MarineSelect truck rumbles to life.
He straightens. “Showtime.”
They exchange a glance as the truck pulls out of the lot. Ben rolls the Jeep slowly into motion, slipping into place a few car lengths back.
“Cut your lights.”
“Sorry.” Ben flicks off the headlights without looking away from the road. His jaw is tight, hands tense at ten and two, eyes pinned on the truck ahead.
Silver Shoals slips away behind them, replaced by the dark, narrowing roads that snake toward the coast. Streetlights thin out. Shadows take over. The headlights of the truck flicker between trees.
“This stuff they’re hauling, it’s all fish byproduct?”
“Mostly,” Ben says. “But… also drums from the maintenance department. Machinery oil, hydraulic fluid, that kind of stuff.”
That tracks. Jackson thinks of the sheen he saw in the video, the rainbow gleam that had set all this in motion.
Suddenly, the truck slows and takes a sharp, jerking turn down an access road marked by a faded sign: USE AT OWN RISK. Thank God they aren’t in Jackson’s Corolla. Ben follows at a crawl; up ahead, the truck veers onto a snowy, unused path sloping toward the coastline.
“We go the rest of the way on foot. Pull off here.”
Ben edges the Jeep behind a thicket and kills the engine. Jackson is already unbuckling.
“Stick close.”
Jackson keeps low, motioning for Ben to stay behind him as he edges toward the bluff. The ocean’s louder here, black water under a dark sky, wind snapping in sharp bursts. He drops behind a rocky outcrop twenty feet from where the truck is parked.
Two men wrestle drums from the back, rolling them toward the edge. Jackson pulls out his phone. Got you.
The first barrel sloshes and tips. Thick liquid hits the water, sliding out in a dark, oily iridescence. Easy to see in person, but the camera struggles to catch it at this distance, in this light. Jackson moves closer, adjusting the angle, trying to sharpen the shot.
Then behind him, a choked sound cuts through the dark.
A sob. Ben.
Jackson swings around.
Ben is crumpled near the rock line, arms wrapped tight around himself, eyes wide and horrified, locked on the drums in the surf. His chest stutters like it’s forgotten how to pull air.
Jackson knows that look, that sound. Knows exactly what happens next. Story, evidence, journalistic impartiality, all of it takes a backseat in an instant.
He slips back to Ben, fast but careful, crouching low in front of the trembling shape of him.
“Hey, hey. Easy.” Don’t overwhelm. Don’t vanish.
Don’t minimize. Jackson keeps his voice calm and firm.
“Stay with me, okay?” He reaches for one of the grounding exercises. “Tell me five things you can see.”
Ben shudders, blinking fast. His voice is high and cracking. “Our waste, Jackson. Our waste. They’re dumping it, it’s in the water, it’s already in the water…”
“No. Not that. Just here. Just right here.”
Ben’s gaze jerks around, wild and unfocused. “Um. Snow. Rocks. The trees. The—the—”
Jackson slides his hand to the back of Ben’s neck. Ben pushes into the touch, starving for it. His breath is still stuttering but coming in just a little easier now, a little more under control. His eyes find Jackson’s face.
“Your scarf,” Ben says finally, voice shaking. “The snow on your boot.”
Jackson pulls him in a little closer. “Perfect,” he murmurs, meaning it. “Now four things you can hear.”
“The ocean. The wind. Your voice. Your jacket… rustling.”
“Good. You’re doing so good, Ben,” Jackson breathes, his thumb brushing carefully over the velvety spot behind Ben’s ear. “Three things you can feel.”
“Your hands on me,” Ben’s voice is soft, wrecked. His fingers tighten on Jackson’s sleeve. “Your breath against my ear. My—my heartbeat.”
Jackson’s own heart kicks hard. “Two things you can smell.”
“Your cologne.” Ben’s eyes flutter closed for half a second, like he’s dizzy with it. “Shea butter.” His face is right there, inches away, breath warm against Jackson’s lips.
Jackson’s forehead dips forward, almost touching. He keeps stroking gentle circles at the nape of Ben’s neck. His chest aches with how badly he wants to hold Ben steady, to hold him always.
“One thing you can taste,” he whispers, the words catching in his throat.
Ben’s eyes lift, wide, shining. “You.”
He surges forward, sudden and shaky, lips crashing into Jackson’s in a kiss that’s all adrenaline and relief, salt wind and hunger, every tender, pent-up thing pouring out in one breathless, desperate touch.
Jackson draws in a sharp, startled gasp, stunned by the sudden crush of heat, and then his mouth is moving, answering, his hands tangling in Ben’s collar, sweeping up to cradle his jaw, trying to tell him without words: I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.
Ben makes a fractured sound, frustrated and needy, and Jackson chases it, pulling them closer, chest to chest. His fingers thread into Ben’s hair, angling the kiss into something deeper, slower.
Ben leans, shudders, falls, pressing all that shaky, breakable trust right into Jackson’s body like he’s sure Jackson will catch it. He will every time he can.
For one suspended moment, the world seems to vanish, folded into unbearable sweetness. There’s no shoreline, no barrels, no truck engine groaning back to life somewhere beyond the rocks.
There’s just Ben.
Jackson noses gently at the corner of Ben’s mouth between kisses, softening the edges. Ben’s shaking, not from cold now but from release, his body finally, finally letting go of the weight it’s been holding.
He presses the promise into Ben’s lips again and again. You’re not alone. You don’t have to carry it alone.
When Jackson finally pulls back, just an aching half-inch, the MarineSelect truck is already gone. All that’s left is the hush of the cove, the snow whispering around them, the dark slick sheen still riding the water. Jackson’s phone lies half buried in the snow.
He looks at Ben, lips parted, pink and kiss-swollen, and he knows exactly why he made the choice he did.
Ben opens his eyes slowly, dark, pupils blown, dazed. Like he’s still trying to make sense of this, of them, of whether this is even something he’s allowed to want. His voice comes thin, “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
Jackson cuts him off, rough, sure, “Don’t.” His thumb brushes over Ben’s jaw, over the rasp of his stubble. He can’t quite stop touching him, can’t quite let go. “You did. You absolutely did.”
Ben lets out a shaky breath, a laugh that catches somewhere in his throat. “God,” he mutters, tipping his head back slightly, like the weight of everything just hit him all at once: the kiss, the dump site, the whole impossible mess of it.
He looks out past Jackson’s shoulder, freezes when he realizes. “The truck,” he says. “It’s gone. I ruined your chance.”
“Hey. Hey, no. Look at me.”
Ben does, wide-eyed and unsteady, like his heart’s still running at twice the speed.
“We’ll figure it out,” Jackson says. “We’ll figure all of it out. I promise you.”
Ben blinks hard, his breath catching, and for a second it feels like maybe he’s about to crumble completely, but Jackson pulls him in, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Ben melts against him with a shuddering exhale, burying his face in Jackson’s neck.
The wind gusts through the black skeletons of the trees, bringing with it the salt-sharp bite of the ocean and the chemical tang of what was just dumped. It should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t. Not with the way Ben presses into Jackson like he’s been doing it his whole life.
They stay like that, snow cold under their knees, heat pooling between them from adrenaline and something sweeter.
The words balance on the tip of his tongue but it’s too much, too soon.
He swallows them down, letting them burn softly in his chest a while longer.
He’s not gonna spill them here, not in a fucking cove full of toxins.
But later. He’s got them ready for whenever Ben’s ready to hear them.
Finally, he pulls back with a reluctant exhale, brushing his thumb one last time across Ben’s cheek. “Come on,” he says, gentle. “Let’s go dig through an asshole’s filing cabinet.”
Ben laughs softly, shaky but real. “Romantic.”
Jackson grins, takes his hand, and pulls him to his feet. “You have no idea, Fish Prince.”
They walk back toward the Jeep, not quite touching, but close. Closer than they were before. Behind them, the water laps quiet and cold against the rocks, like nothing ever happened.
But everything has.