Chapter One #2
“As the junior he shouldered the label of troublemaker, of turning against one of his own, and he carried it,” Dev said.
“Still does. We told the truth. Followed protocol. And it didn’t matter.
The system didn’t protect Ricky. Not as a kid, and not as a soldier.
Didn’t believe him. That kind of betrayal—by someone in your own uniform—it gets under your skin. ”
He crossed the room again, sat on the edge of the desk, eyes steady on Bateman’s.
“He’s never trusted easy. And after Veracruz? He barely trusted at all.” Dev’s tone was solemn.
Bateman exhaled, low and rough. “He trusts us.”
“He did,” Dev said. “But if he let Ezra in—even for a second—and Ezra ran?”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.
Bateman rubbed a hand over his face. “So, what do I do?”
Dev leaned forward. “You wait. You hold the space. And when he’s ready, you be there. Not as a leader but as his anchor. Because if you push now? He’ll fold. He’ll walk, Bateman.”
Bateman nodded, slow and reluctant. “To be honest I think he’s mostly out the door anyway. He’ll go. Something will set him off and he will leave. But after that? What if he doesn’t come back?”
Dev’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then we go find what’s left of him.”
They were quiet for a long minute.
“And Ezra?” Bateman asked, pushing to stand.
Dev finally turned to face him. “You can’t know for sure if he had anything to do with it, but my guess is things went from flirty to hot too damn fast and Ezra bolted. For whatever reason. He left, and if Ricky ain’t talking about it, then you can’t know. Not for sure.”
Bateman looked up. “Then I guess that man’s got some serious explaining to do.”
****
Ricky’s fists hit the bag with a rhythm that felt like survival.
Every impact was precise. Controlled. Mechanical. Jab. Cross. Hook. Reset. Again. He didn’t feel the sweat slicking down his back or the dull ache radiating from his shoulder—the one that still twinged from catching a bullet meant for Bateman.
Didn’t care.
Pain was better than stillness. Better than thinking.
Because when he stopped moving, his mind drifted. Always back to that night.
Ezra’s room had smelled like cedar soap and gun oil.
Quiet.
Private.
He hadn’t planned for it to happen, hadn’t wanted to want that badly. But the words had come anyway. Stupid things. Honest things. Like, I don’t do this. Like, You make me feel safe.
And Ezra had answered, had pulled him close, hands trembling just enough to be real. Had kissed him slowly and sweet like it meant something. They’d lain together after, breathing the same air, foreheads touching.
And Ricky ... he’d let himself believe.
That it wasn’t just sex. That it wasn’t just him.
He’d fallen asleep in Ezra Navarro’s arms and woken up to a cold bed.
No note. No call. No message.
Just empty.
Like he fucking regretted it.
Ricky slammed his fist into the bag harder, jaw clenched tight.
He didn’t do vulnerability. Didn’t do firsts.
And Ezra—he’d been both. First time he’d trusted someone to see him, touch him, know him. First time he’d let anyone that close. And the bastard had walked out like it was nothing. Like Ricky wasn’t even worth a goodbye.
Had he done something wrong? Said something? Was it too much? Or worse—not enough?
The bag wobbled. His rhythm broke. Ricky’s breath came fast and hot in the back of his throat.
You let him in. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He unwrapped his hands in silence and stalked to the showers.
The water scalded, and he let it.
Let it sear down his spine, sting his scraped knuckles raw, hiss off the fresh welts blooming along his shoulder from the bag. It felt almost holy in its heat—like maybe if it burned deep enough, it could cauterize the emptiness that had been bleeding through his ribs since the day Ezra vanished.
Three months.
Three months since he’d woken up alone in that barracks bed, skin still warm with the shape of someone who’d held him like he mattered. Since the scent of cedar and metal and skin had lingered on the pillow beside his.
Ezra had left before sunrise.
And Ricky ... like a damn fool, Ricky had waited.
All damn day, pacing between training rotations, checking his phone like a fucking idiot. Every time it buzzed, he’d jumped. And every time it hadn’t been him—hadn’t been anything—the crack widened.
By midnight, he’d stopped hoping.
By the next morning, he’d built the wall.
No one knew they’d been together. No one asked. That was how things went here—don’t ask, don’t pry, don’t break the silence if you’re not prepared for the fallout. So, they let him drift. Cold, quiet. A ghost with calloused hands and perfect scores.
He trained like his life depended on it. Worked until his muscles screamed. He did everything he needed to do. Everything except talk.
Because what the hell was he supposed to say?
Hey, LT, I let someone into my bed, and he vanished. Oh, and by the way, it was my first time. Yay, milestones.
The soap didn’t help. Neither did the heat. He scrubbed until his skin hurt and still he felt dirty. Stupid. Small.
He’d never given himself like that before. Not because of shame. Not because he didn’t want to. But because it never felt safe. Never felt earned. And Ezra—he’d made it feel real.
He’d kissed him like Ricky wasn’t something broken. Had touched him like he already belonged. Then walked out like none of it had meant a goddamn thing.
Ricky swiped a hand across his face, angry with himself for the sting behind his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry. He didn’t do that. Didn’t need anyone. Never had. So, why did it still hurt this much?
His mind was still spinning, chest tight, thoughts looping back and back and back.
Ezra’s hand on his jaw. The way he’d whispered I’ve got you.
The way it had felt like a beginning.
And ended in silence.
Growling, he stepped out of the shower, swiftly toweled himself off, got dressed, and left the gym for the main house.
The Ridge always felt too big at night. Too quiet.
Like the ghosts here whispered louder in the dark.
Most of the team would be in the mess or winding down.
Ricky had timed it that way on purpose. He didn’t want the pity stares.
Didn’t want the forced small talk. Didn’t want anyone asking how he was doing like he wasn’t clearly hanging on by the thinnest fucking thread.
He just wanted silence.
Wanted sleep, maybe. Or whatever passed for it these days.
He turned the corner of the Communications and Innovation Building and nearly collided with Marsh Clarkson, who stepped out rubbing his temples like he'd just spent three hours trying to decode static and found nothing but migraines.
Marsh blinked at him, startled, and then something behind his eyes flickered—tight and weary. Ricky gave him a nod and started to move past. But Marsh didn’t move.
Didn’t step aside.
“Jesus,” Marsh muttered, not quite under his breath. “You ever gonna say something to anyone again, Ricky, or you just planning to haunt the fucking Ridge?”
Ricky froze mid-step. “What?”
Marsh straightened, a tired kind of frustration in his posture, not anger exactly—just done. “You know what I mean. You’ve been moving like a goddamn shadow for months. You show up. You train. You do your duties. But you’re not here, man. Not really.”
Ricky’s expression darkened as a wave of anger rose within him. “I’m doing my job.”
“Fucking barely!” Marsh said, sharper now. “And when you are working, you’re like a ghost. Like you’re checking a box until you fade out completely. You think that’s not affecting the team?”
Ricky’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m trying to keep things running. Comms, network uplinks, the Ridge systems—we’re falling behind because no one wants to talk about shit that is happening.
And you? You’re the epicenter of this shit storm, Ricky.
You're cracking this whole thing wide open without saying a word. You don’t want anyone to help you, but you are doing nothing to fucking help yourself! ”
“I don’t need anyone to fix me,” Ricky bit out.
“Good,” Marsh snapped. “Because we’re not your fucking therapists. I’m not even sure if you’re stable enough for fieldwork. Hell, you might not even be enough of a Pathfinder to be worth having around!”
The words hit like a slap. Even Marsh looked startled the second they left his mouth. Ricky’s jaw tightened, his whole body going still.
Marsh exhaled, backing off. “Fuck, wait, Ricky, shit, I didn’t mean—”
But it was too late. Ricky’s walls slammed shut so fast it echoed. He didn’t yell. Didn’t argue. Didn’t even flinch. He just continued on his way back to his room.
He sat on the edge of his bed, feeling numb. The room was dim, quiet. The kind of quiet that scraped at your nerves until you either screamed or folded.
But if you don’t want to be here, maybe you shouldn’t be here
Maybe, he shouldn’t.
He stood up, leaned over and pulled his duffel from under the bed and packed the basics. Clothes. Sidearm. Tactical gear. No plan.
No goodbye.
Door closed. Lights off.
No one stopped him.
Then he was gone.