70. Ryan
Ryan
“Shower?” Jackson murmured, his voice a low vibration that made my heart stutter.
I nodded, the simple domesticity of the invitation feeling like a profound gift.
The bathroom was a sanctuary of slate and glass, filled with the hum of the water and the immediate, enveloping warmth of the steam.
We stepped into the large walk-in shower together, and for a moment, we just stood there, letting the hot spray wash away the residual grit of the desert and the lingering tension.
Jackson took the soap, his hands slow and deliberate as he lathered my skin.
He didn’t just wash me, he worshiped me, his touch a gentle reclamation of the body I’d treated as a weapon for so long.
I let my hands trace the formidable shape of his shoulders and the firm, smooth expanse of his chest. The intimacy of the shared space, the scent of expensive sandalwood soap, and the weight of the water created a bubble where the war couldn’t reach.
In the steam, with our foreheads pressed together, we weren’t a soldier and a hockey player; we were just two men finding our center.
Dressed in a pair of Jackson’s grey sweatpants and a hoodie, we began to explore the house.
I followed him through the hallway, my bare feet silent on the cool hardwood.
The house was an extension of the man, open, bright, and filled with a quiet strength.
Large windows looked out over the Pacific, the gray morning light turning the water into a sheet of polished steel.
I stopped in the living room, my gaze falling on a collection of framed photos on the mantle.
There was Jackson with a younger version of Logan, both of them grinning and covered in ice shavings, and a smaller photo of an elderly couple in Vegas, their eyes full of pride.
This wasn’t a barracks or a temporary detachment; it was a life built on permanence and genuine connection.
I walked over to the large bookshelf that lined the far wall.
It was filled with messy stacks of hockey biographies and a small, hand-carved wooden duck sitting on top of a stack of records.
I reached out, my thumb tracing the smooth wood of the duck.
Jackson had created a world that had room for me, a world where the guy who drew ducks wasn’t a secret to be guarded, but a man to be celebrated.
Looking at the cozy furniture and the kitchen, I had a sudden, staggering realization.
This wasn’t just Jackson’s world. If I chose it, this could be my home.
The sense of permanence was overwhelming, a beautiful, terrifying anchor in a life defined by the noise of the desert.
I looked at Jackson, who was standing by the window watching the tide, and I knew the quiet pond wasn’t just a daydream anymore. It was right here.
Jackson’s house was too loud. Not with sound, but with lack of sound.
The silence was deafening, demanding to be filled by the noise I had learned to ignore, the constant, low-frequency hum of a war zone.
I sat on the couch, wrapped in one of Jackson’s worn hockey hoodies, watching him pack a small gym bag.
When a car horn blared unexpectedly from the street outside, I jumped, my head snapping toward the window.
My heart rate spiked, a sudden, familiar tightness clenching my fists.
I wasn’t back in the field, but I was close.
I gripped the coffee mug until my knuckles were white.
Jackson saw it instantly. He walked over, didn’t say a word, and just sat next to me.
He didn’t touch my shoulder or ask what was wrong.
He just took my hand, intertwining our fingers, grounding me with the steady, heavy pressure of his life.
“It’s just Seattle, Ryan,” he said, his voice a low, soothing vibration in the quiet.
“Just traffic.” The noise of the city felt too close, too vulnerable, but holding Jackson’s hand felt like holding the anchor line back to safety.
I knew the moment I let go, the current would pull me under.
I can do this, I can be strong, I have to do this, I can’t lose Jackson, too.