Family

Saoirse POV:

I woke up screaming, I did not have enough time to register, the screaming that tore out of my throat, not enough time to know it was even mine. The lights were blinding me, the walls closing in like a cockpit. A faint beep pulsed somewhere. Hissing. Alarm bells. No Air. Nothing. My hands flew to my chest and throat scratching, trying to release an invisible grip. I could not breathe. I was falling again.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.” A voice cut through, low and steady. Hands on my shoulders, warm, anchoring. I blinked, vision swimming, and saw eyes—Baby blue, steady as steel and unyielding. Jackson. When did Jackson get here? “You’re okay. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

“Safe?” My voice cracked, sharp. “I—I crashed. The ejector—” My throat closed, the memory assaulting me. Fastened. Trapped. Ground. My heart slammed against my ribs, too fast, too loud.

“Breathe with me.” Jackson didn’t move his hands, their grip a lifeline. “In for four. Hold for four. Out for six. Come on.” I wanted to snap at him—I don’t need this—but my lungs weren’t mine anymore. I tried, gasping, matching his slow inhales. His breath was like a rhythm, like the hum of engines before takeoff.

“Five things you see,” he said, voice calm but firm. “Name ’em.”

I shook my head, dizzy. “I don’t think I—”

“You can. Start with me.” A half-smile, barely there, but it hooked me.

“You,” I rasped. “Your… stupid boots. The IV. That annoying crack in the ceiling. The… blanket.” My voice steadied, just a fraction. The room stopped spinning.

“Good.” Jackson brushed my arm with his thumb, a small thing that felt bigger than it should. “You’re right here. Not there.” I nodded, my throat and chest tight. I wasn’t okay or fine, not even close, but his eyes held mine, and for the first time since the crash, I wasn’t falling or spinning out of control.

“I followed his breathing count, feeling my panic start to slip away. “I thought you were in the field?” I asked, my voice hoarse, the question clawing its way out of the fog in my head.

Jackson’s half-smile faded, his eyes flicking away for a split second, like he was weighing what to say. “Was,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. “Got back two days ago. Heard about your crash.” His thumb stopped brushing my arm, his hand settling heavier on my shoulder, like he was bracing me for something. “Didn’t think I’d find you like this, though.”

My chest tightened again, not from the crash this time but from the way his words landed—blunt, but laced with something softer, something I wasn’t ready to name. “Like what?” I snapped, sharper than I meant. “A wreck?”

“Alive,” he said, his gaze locking back onto mine, baby blue and unyielding. “That’s what matters.” He leaned closer, just enough for me to catch the faint scent of coffee and gun oil clinging to him. “You scared the hell out of us, you know that?”

I swallowed; my throat raw. The hospital room felt too small; the beeping monitor too loud. I wanted to argue, to shove his words away, but the weight of his hand, the steadiness in his eyes, kept me tethered. For the first time since I woke up screaming, I didn’t want to run from it. “Us?” I rasped, frowning, the word snagging in my brain. “Who’s us?”

Jackson’s jaw tightened, a shadow crossing his face. “The squad. Me. After you went down, we—” He cut off, scrubbing a hand over his buzzed hair, the motion sharp, frustrated. “I was in Kandahar when the call came. Middle of a recon op. Had to beg to get stateside.” His voice dipped, rougher now. “Thought I’d be too late.”

My breath hitched. Kandahar. The name conjured dust-choked air, the crack of gunfire. I’d known he was deployed, but hearing it—knowing he’d dropped everything—hit like a punch. “You… left a mission?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper. Jackson didn’t do that. Not the guy who’d flown through hellstorms without blinking, who’d dragged me through flight school when I wanted to quit.

“Didn’t have a choice,” he said, eyes boring into mine. “Not when it was you.” The words hung there, raw, like he’d ripped them out of somewhere deep. The monitor’s beeping filled the silence, too loud, too steady compared to the chaos in my head. I wanted to say something—anything—but my throat locked up, memories of him, of us, flashing too fast: late-night briefings, shared drinks, his laugh cutting through the tension before a sortie.

“Why?” I finally managed, the question brittle. “Why’d you come?”

He leaned back, just a fraction, like the question stung. “You really gotta ask?” His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it, a crack in his usual steel. “After everything? You’re family, damn it. More than that.” He stopped, jaw working, like he’d said too much. His hand slipped from my shoulder, leaving a cold spot where it had been.

The room felt smaller, the air thicker. I wasn’t ready for this—whatever this was. Not with the crash still clawing at my skull, not with my heart hammering like I was back in the cockpit. But his eyes didn’t let go, and for once, I didn’t want them to.

“You came back for me, that much I understand,” I said, my voice sharper now, clawing through the haze. “But I don’t understand the why. Why say ‘more than that’ then stop? There’s so much to unpack here, and I’m just trying to understand.” My hands gripped the hospital blanket, knuckles white, like it could anchor me against the storm in my chest.

Jackson’s eyes flickered, something raw breaking through his guarded stare. He shifted, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight like he was holding himself together. “You want the truth?” he said, voice low, almost dangerous. “I don’t know if you’re ready for it. Hell, I’m not.” He exhaled, a rough sound, and looked down at his hands—calloused, scarred, one thumb tracing a faint burn mark I’d never noticed before.

“Try me,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. The crash still gnawed at me, but this—this was something else, something bigger. I needed to know.

He met my gaze, and for a second, I saw the Jackson from flight school, the one who’d stayed up all night drilling me on emergency protocols, who’d grinned like a fool when I finally nailed a landing. Then it was gone, replaced by something heavier. “Back in Ramstein,” he started, voice slow, deliberate, “when we lost Carter in that chopper crash, you were the one who kept me from falling apart. You didn’t even know it. The way you… just kept going, kept fighting. It stuck with me.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I told myself I’d never let you down like I did him.”

My throat tightened. Carter. The name hit like a shockwave, dragging up memories of a funeral, dress blues, Jackson’s face blank as stone. “That wasn’t your fault,” I said, but the words felt hollow.

“Maybe not,” he said, eyes distant. “But it felt like it. And when I heard your jet went down…” He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping. “I was halfway across the world, and all I could think was, ‘Not again.’ Not you.” His voice cracked, just enough to make my chest ache. “You’re not just family, alright? You’re the one I can’t lose.”

The words landed like a missile, tearing through my defenses. I saw flashes of our history—late nights in the barracks, his voice steady over the phone from some godforsaken base, letters scrawled in his messy hand that I’d read until the paper wore thin. This was my best friend, the boy I’d confided in, relied on through every brutal day of flight school. My anchor in any storm. But now, I didn’t see the mask he always wore, the cocky grin or the steel in his spine. I saw the boy I’d crushed on, the one I’d been close to until deployments tore us apart. In his eyes, I saw true terror—sad, broken, scared, and lost. The truth of his words burned through me, raw and unfiltered.

“Jackson,” I whispered, my voice fracturing. My hand reached for his, trembling, but I stopped short, the IV tugging at my arm. “You’re scared too, aren’t you? This whole time, you’ve been…” I trailed off, the weight of it choking me. His fear mirrored mine, a twin to the panic that had clawed me awake.

He didn’t look away, but his shoulders slumped, like the fight had drained out of him. “Yeah,” he said, barely audible. “Every damn day out there. But losing you?” He shook his head, a small, broken motion. “That’s the one thing I can’t do.” His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach back, but he held still, eyes locked on mine, waiting.

The hospital room pressed in—the beep of the monitor, the sting of antiseptic, the ache in my chest that wasn’t just from the crash. I wanted to tell him everything—how I’d missed him, how his letters had kept me sane, how I’d buried my feelings because I thought we’d never be here again. But the words wouldn’t come, stuck behind the fear that this moment, this truth, might break us both.

Do I chance my heart and confess my feelings for him, or do I not say anything and leave it hanging in the open?