Page 8 of Danger Close
He’d never given himself like that before.Not because of shame.Not because he didn’t want to.But because it never felt safe.Never felt earned.And Ezra—he’d made it feel real.
He’d kissed him like Ricky wasn’t something broken.Had touched him like he already belonged.Then walked out like none of it had meant a goddamn thing.
Ricky swiped a hand across his face, angry with himself for the sting behind his eyes.He wasn’t going to cry.He didn’t do that.Didn’t need anyone.Never had.So, why did it still hurt this much?
His mind was still spinning, chest tight, thoughts looping back and back and back.
Ezra’s hand on his jaw.The way he’d whisperedI’ve got you.
The way it had felt like a beginning.
And ended in silence.
Growling, he stepped out of the shower, swiftly toweled himself off, got dressed, and left the gym for the main house.The Ridge always felt too big at night.Too quiet.Like the ghosts here whispered louder in the dark.Most of the team would be in the mess or winding down.Ricky had timed it that way on purpose.He didn’t want the pity stares.Didn’t want the forced small talk.Didn’t want anyone asking how he was doing like he wasn’t clearly hanging on by the thinnest fucking thread.
He just wanted silence.
Wanted sleep, maybe.Or whatever passed for it these days.
He turned the corner of the Communications and Innovation Building and nearly collided with Marsh Clarkson, who stepped out rubbing his temples like he'd just spent three hours trying to decode static and found nothing but migraines.
Marsh blinked at him, startled, and then something behind his eyes flickered—tight and weary.Ricky gave him a nod and started to move past.But Marsh didn’t move.
Didn’t step aside.
“Jesus,” Marsh muttered, not quite under his breath.“You ever gonna say something to anyone again, Ricky, or you just planning to haunt the fucking Ridge?”
Ricky froze mid-step.“What?”
Marsh straightened, a tired kind of frustration in his posture, not anger exactly—just done.“You know what I mean.You’ve been moving like a goddamn shadow for months.You show up.You train.You do your duties.But you’re not here, man.Not really.”
Ricky’s expression darkened as a wave of anger rose within him.“I’m doing my job.”
“Fucking barely!”Marsh said, sharper now.“And when you are working, you’re like a ghost.Like you’re checking a box until you fade out completely.You think that’s not affecting the team?”
Ricky’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m trying to keep things running.Comms, network uplinks, the Ridge systems—we’re falling behind because no one wants to talk about shit that is happening.And you?You’re the epicenter of this shit storm, Ricky.You're cracking this whole thing wide open without saying a word.You don’t want anyone to help you, but you are doing nothing to fucking help yourself!”
“I don’t need anyone to fix me,” Ricky bit out.
“Good,” Marsh snapped.“Because we’re not your fucking therapists.I’m not even sure if you’re stable enough for fieldwork.Hell, you might not even be enough of a Pathfinder to be worth having around!”
The words hit like a slap.Even Marsh looked startled the second they left his mouth.Ricky’s jaw tightened, his whole body going still.
Marsh exhaled, backing off.“Fuck, wait, Ricky, shit, I didn’t mean—”
But it was too late.Ricky’s walls slammed shut so fast it echoed.He didn’t yell.Didn’t argue.Didn’t even flinch.He just continued on his way back to his room.
He sat on the edge of his bed, feeling numb.The room was dim, quiet.The kind of quiet that scraped at your nerves until you either screamed or folded.
But if you don’t want to be here, maybe you shouldn’t be here
Maybe, he shouldn’t.
He stood up, leaned over and pulled his duffel from under the bed and packed the basics.Clothes.Sidearm.Tactical gear.No plan.
No goodbye.
