69. Ryan
Ryan
Waking up next to Jackson again as the sun began to filter through the blinds was a slow, impossible return to a life I hadn’t earned.
My body, which had been a tight coil of hyper vigilance for years, felt slack and heavy, surrendered entirely to the deep, silent sleep I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.
The air in this room didn’t smell of diesel or sand or fear; it smelled like Jackson, clean, faintly masculine, and laced with a hint of last night’s passion.
It was the smell of safety. I opened my eyes to the soft light, and the first thing I saw was Jackson’s face buried in my hair, his arm thrown possessively over my waist. He was still asleep, his breathing a steady, comforting anchor against the lingering hammering in my chest. I noticed a stack of my letters beside the coffee on the side table. Had he got up and made these for us?
I looked down at his arm, tracing the line of his muscle with my thumb, and let the sheer, staggering reality of the situation wash over me.
I was home. Not just in a building, but in a person.
The moment was so perfect, so impossibly quiet, that the ghosts started to stir.
A faint memory of the explosion, the sharp, coppery tang of blood, the crushing weight of Brody’s body, it all tried to creep into the edges of my mind.
But this time, they didn’t win. This time, I had a real weapon, the solid, warm weight of Jackson.
His presence was a physical barricade against the terror.
I turned slightly, propping myself up on an elbow to look at him.
His mouth was soft in sleep, completely stripped of the public grin he wore for the cameras.
He was just Jackson, vulnerable and beautiful.
My gaze dropped to his ribs, where the skate-wearing duck was permanently etched into his skin.
The tattoo was a testament to his belief in the guy who drew ducks, a belief so strong he made it a part of himself.
That simple piece of ink was the most profound act of love I’d ever witnessed.
Jackson stirred, his eyes fluttering open, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face, the kind he only wore for me.
“Morning, soldier,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
I couldn’t speak; the words caught in my throat.
Instead, I leaned down and kissed him, a long, reverent press of my lips to his.
It wasn’t the desperate urgency of the night before; it was a promise.
I was here. I was safe. And I was never leaving his side.