62. Ryan
Ryan
The flight home was a sensory vacuum. I’d spent twelve hours crammed into a military transport, the drone of the engines the only familiar sound, and now I was on a civilian jet, the air too clean, the seats too soft.
Every person next to me was smiling, scrolling on a phone, or reading a magazine.
I couldn’t stop scanning the cabin, cataloging faces, looking for anything that didn’t belong, my muscles coiled tight under the thin civilian jacket.
But the hyper-vigilance wasn’t just about tactical threats; it was a deeper, more visceral panic.
For the first time in my life, I was heading toward a man I loved without the shadow of a bunk or the safety of a redacted envelope to hide behind.
The fear of being exposed, a reflex I’d honed for nearly a decade in the military, was screaming at me to lock down.
Being gay felt like walking into enemy territory without a vest. I was navigating a new identity, and every step toward meeting Jackson felt like a terrifying betrayal of the armor I’d built.
When the plane finally touched down in Seattle, the shift in atmosphere was immediate.
The humidity hit me first, followed by the perfume of the airport, too sweet, too many artificial smells layered on top of each other.
I kept my head down, forcing myself to walk slowly, resisting the military rhythm of “move fast, don’t be a target. ”
When I finally reached the hotel room, anonymous and high up, away from the street noise, I stood in the middle of the room, completely paralyzed.
The quiet was louder than any gunfight. I just needed to survive the night before I saw Jackson.
I needed to find the man who drew ducks and bury the soldier deep under the bed.