The corridor was colder at night, the silence almost oppressive. You wrapped your arms around yourself as you moved down the hallway, the base practically desert this late. You told yourself this was just a walk, that you didn’t know exactly where your feet were carrying you. But that was a lie. You always ended up at the same door.

His door.

Colonel Jackson's office had become a place you relied on during these sleepless nights. He never questioned your visits. He never sent you away. There was comfort in his steady, wordless presence. When the world was in chaos, he wasn’t. Even if he rarely smiled, there was always a softness in his eyes when he looked at you. Something that no one else seemed to notice.

You didn’t bother knocking. You never had to.

The door swung open gently and you stepped inside, only to stop abruptly.

There were others inside.

A half-moon of senior officers surrounded the map table. You saw charts, documents, digital projections. A strategy meeting—serious, official. You froze in the doorway and every pair of eyes turned to you like a spotlight.

And then there was him.

Colonel Jackson stood at the head of the room, his massive frame impossible to miss. Broad-shouldered, tall—so tall—his muscular form filled the space behind the desk like a wall of authority. His short brown hair looked even messier in the low light. His jaw was clenched, stubble shadowing his sharp features. His green eyes locked onto you immediately. Not angry. Not surprised. Something else. Something deeper.

Your heart leapt into your throat.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammered, already backing out. “I didn’t know— I’ll go—”

You shut the door behind you before anyone could speak.

Then you ran.

The hallway blurred. Embarrassment burned through your chest, your face hot with shame. He wasn’t supposed to see you like that—small, out of place, fragile.

You turned the corner, your dorm just in sight—when arms wrapped around your waist, strong and sure.

You gasped.

Before you could fight, your feet left the ground.

He lifted you as though you weighed nothing, your back pressed tightly against his chest. His grip was unbreakable. Warm.

“Stop,” he murmured into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. His voice wasn't like the one he used for commands. It was low and intimate, vibrating through you.

You could feel his heart beating steadily against your back, anchoring you in place.

“Jackson—Colonel, I—” you breathed, but the words were useless. Powerless.

“You don’t run from me,” he whispered, closer now, his lips brushing your ear. “Not you.”

You stopped breathing.

His grip didn’t tighten—it didn’t have to. His hands were huge, steady, spread across your ribs and waist like he was memorizing the shape of you. He held you like he’d imagined it too many times. Like he couldn’t stop now, even if he wanted to.

“I don’t care about the others,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I don’t care about the damn meeting. I only care when you’re not near me.”

Time seemed to stall. Your mind tried to catch up, but your body knew first—this wasn’t a mistake. This wasn’t a slip.

This was the truth finally breaking through.

His truth.

Yours.

And as you hung suspended in his arms, your heart whispered the one thing your lips couldn’t yet say out loud.

You didn’t want to run.

Not anymore.