72. Ryan
Ryan
I stood staring out at the crashing sea, still wrapped in Jackson’s hoodie; it smelt like him, that was the temporary anchor against the swirling unease in my gut.
I tried to focus on the plush dinosaur on the kitchen counter, the one he’d mentioned in a letter, or the ridiculous little cluster of Tidal Teals magnets on the fridge.
Mundane. Domestic. Safe. But my mind refused to settle.
In the barracks, I was surrounded by a dozen men, their breathing, their snoring, their cleaning rituals, a low-frequency hum of shared tension.
Here, every creak of the floorboards felt like a magnified step in the dark.
I ran a hand over the rough fabric of the hoodie, feeling the texture in a desperate attempt to ground myself.
Jackson’s voice was the only thing that felt real.
His gentle instruction, “Breathe,” felt impossible to follow.
I was waiting for the sound. Waiting for the door to burst open, waiting for the yell, the flash, the terrible, metallic scent of blood and dirt.
I couldn’t relax the tension coiled in my shoulders.
I was alone, and in my line of work, alone meant dead.
I just needed him to come back. I just needed the noise of the real world to drown out the noise in my head.
Then, a small, soft weight bumped against my ankle.
I jumped, my heart hammering against my ribs, hands flying to my side before I realized it was just Puck.
The little guy had emerged from under the sofa, tail twitching like a lightning rod.
He let out a tiny, questioning meow, completely unimpressed by my state, and pounced on my sneaker, doing that ridiculous bunny-kick thing.
It was absurd that a tiny, furry, chaotic troublemaker was trying to dismantle my shoelaces while I was trying to hold my soul together.
He tripped over his own paws, tumbled onto his back, and blinked up at me with those giant, innocent eyes, as if to ask why I was standing there looking like the world was ending instead of playing with him.
For a second, the roar of the explosion in my head faded, replaced by the sheer, grounded absurdity of a cat fighting a shoe.
I sank down to the floor, my shoulders finally dropping.
“You’re a menace, you know that?” I whispered, my voice rough.
He didn’t care. He just kneaded my knee, purring like a tiny, erratic engine, demanding to be the center of my universe.
It wasn’t the noise of the real world I’d been waiting for, but as the purring vibrated through the floorboards and into my bones, it was enough to keep the ghosts at bay for one more hour.