74. Ryan
Ryan
The sudden, random pop from the central heating fan was enough to send a sharp jolt of ice through my spine.
One moment, I was safe, wrapped in Jackson’s arms; the next, the ceiling was drywall, the scent of fresh sheets was replaced by diesel fumes, and I was back in the hallway.
I physically recoiled, a low, guttural cry tearing out of me.
I pushed Jackson away, adrenaline flooding my system, my hands shaking violently as I scanned the room for a threat that wasn’t there.
Jackson didn’t panic. He didn’t try to hold me down or shout my name.
He just waited, his presence a steady weight next to me.
“Splash,” he whispered softly, using the name he only knew from the letters.
“Look at me. Look at my chest.” I turned, my eyes wide and unfocused.
He guided my trembling hand, placing it flat over his heart.
“Do you feel that? It’s me. Not the war.
Listen to my heart. It’s beating. It’s here, Ryan.
You’re home.” I buried my face into his shoulder, clinging to the rhythm of his life, letting his steady beat drown out the ghosts of gunfire in my ears.
He was my anchor, a quiet, immovable weight in a world that had just been blown apart.
I was still clinging to him, my body racked by tremors, letting his steady heartbeat drown out the ghosts of gunfire.
My breath was ragged against his neck, pulling in the clean, safe scent of him.
He held me tighter, a quiet, immovable weight, stroking my back with a steady rhythm.
The intense fear began to recede, leaving behind a raw, shaky vulnerability.
I realized I was pressed against his chest, completely unarmored, and he hadn’t flinched. He just kept holding me.
When the shaking finally subsided, I lifted my head slightly, resting my chin on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I choked out, the word feeling small and inadequate.
“Don’t you dare apologize,” Jackson murmured, kissing the top of my head.
“Never. I’m right here.” I took a deep, shuddering breath, looking at the familiar shape of his collarbone.
The memory of the flashback was still sharp, but the shame of it was less intense now that he had seen the worst and stayed.
I felt an urgent need to give him something, the most vulnerable piece of myself, the piece I’d hidden even in my letters.
“You asked, in one of the letters,” I whispered, the words barely audible.
“Why ‘Splash?” Jackson didn’t move, just waited, his attention absolute.
“It was a training drill in Alaska,” I admitted, a ghost of a smile finally touching my mouth.
“We were crossing a frozen river, full gear, in the middle of the night. I hit a patch of black ice and went straight through, fuck, I thought I was going to die right there and then. The guys had to fish me out. It was terrifying; it was the first time my life flashed before me. I was ‘Splash’ before I even finished the week.”
He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against my side. Jackson leaned down, his eyes steady and full of a fierce, soft light.
He kissed me, a soft, long touch that promised eternity. “The soldier is impressive, Ryan, but the man who draws ducks to find his quiet? That’s the one I love. That’s the one I’m never letting go of.”