68. Jackson
Jackson
The gray light of dawn was filtering through the blinds of my bedroom.
For the first time in my life, the king-size bed felt exactly the right size.
Ryan was curled into my side, his back pressed against my chest, his breathing deep and even.
The weight of him against me was the most grounding thing I’d ever felt.
I watched him—the kind of deep, uninterrupted rest that only comes when you’ve finally put down the armor.
Last night wasn’t just a physical release; it was a total change in the game plan.
The way he’d looked at me, like I was the only play in the book, had stripped away the “Joker” persona entirely.
I didn’t need the mask here. I was just Jackson, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I was playing on my home ice.
My mind raced with questions I hadn’t been able to ask in the heat of the night.
How did he get here? How did he manage to leave that world behind so suddenly, and more importantly, was he really ok?
I could feel the tension still radiating from his muscles, even in sleep.
I let my gaze wander over him, tracing the powerful lines of his back.
He was breathtakingly beautiful, but it was the history written on his skin that made my chest ache with a fierce, protective love.
Everything finally felt right, like a puzzle piece clicking into place after years of searching.
Slowly, I pressed soft, lingering kisses to every mark I could find—the thin white lines on his arms, the jagged reminder on his shoulder.
With every kiss, I made a silent vow: I was going to love every part of him until the noise finally let him go.
He stirred, a low rumble of a groan escaping him, and he shifted. His skin slid against mine with a friction that made my pulse jump.
“You’re awake,” he rasped, his voice rough and thick with sleep. He opened his eyes, and the guard was still down. No cold detachment, no hyper-vigilance. Just Ryan.
“I’ve been awake for an hour,” I admitted, my hand drifting over his back, feeling the heat radiate off him. “Couldn’t sleep. Too busy realizing you’re actually here.”
He laughed, a sound so genuine it made my chest ache, and pulled me into him, his legs tangling with mine as he fell back to sleep. The morning light didn’t feel like a transition; it felt like a beginning.
The smell of burnt bacon was absent today, replaced by the deep, rich scent of good coffee and the phantom salt of Ryan’s skin.
I moved through my kitchen, utterly silent, hyper-aware of the man in my bed.
He felt like a rare, fragile prize I hadn’t earned.
I brought two mugs back and hovered in the doorway, just watching him.
For the first time since he’d arrived, the sharp, defensive lines of his face had smoothed out, the constant tension drained from his jaw.
He looked younger, softer, like the kid who used to sit on a bucket and draw ducks.
My chest felt impossibly tight as I realized he wasn’t flinching at the morning light or bracing for a sound.
Was he really sleeping this solidly because he finally felt safe with me?
The thought was overwhelming—a staggering responsibility that made my hands tremble against the warm ceramic of the mugs.
Last night felt perfect; it felt so right.
Ryan is my missing piece, and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure he sees just how much I want him in my life.
I finally sat down, the mattress dipping, and slid back into bed with my soldier. Fuck the coffee, it could wait.