Page 91 of Yours on the Canvas

My hands shake, a fine, jagged tremor I can’t control. Every time I close my eyes, the memory of Jack’s ring, that gold band rubbing a raw, constant red circle into my pinkie finger, is the only thing keeping my pulse anchored to this earth.

It’s a physical ache that matches the agonising, starving hollow in my chest. I can’t decide if I want to tear the world apart to find him or just scream until my lungs collapse.

Footsteps echo down the hall, heavy and familiar, Deck or CJ, likely coming to see if I’m still breathing, but I don’t turn. I don’t acknowledge them. I can’t leave.

Leaving this room means admitting he isn’t coming back, and my mind flatly refuses to accept that math.

To stop looking is to let him die.

To give up is to stop being Silas.

Midnight in the office always carries a suffocating weight, a pressure behind my eyes that never fully fades. The rest of the guys have finally stopped trying to drag me to bed hours ago, leaving me alone in the dim, humming glow of the room.

My body still craves Jack with a vicious, consuming intensity that feels more like a possession than a desire. It’s not just a mental ache; it’s a physical sickness. Every nerve ending feels hyper-sensitive, raw and exposed, constantly searching for the phantom heat of his skin, the weight of his limbs, the sweet, breathless sound of my name against his lips.

Sometimes, I stare at the empty chair where he used to sit, the phantom scent of him, pine and clean skin, still lingering in the fabric of my own hoodie, and I feel a wave of such pure, white-hot rage that I want to put my fist through the wall. I’m starving for him. I’m slowly dying, and the worst part is that I like it.

I like that he’s taking my sanity with him.

It’s a fitting fucking tribute.

Exhaustion finally drags me down against my will, a heavy curtain of fatigue that hits like a hammer to the back of the skull. I don’t bother with a real bed. I can’t handle the empty space of our sheets, the cold, vacant stretch of mattress that screams his absence. I collapse onto the narrow, uncomfortable cot pushed into the corner of the operations room. I don’t deserve comfort while he’s in the dark. I don’t deserve to sleep soundly.

I lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the dark to claim me. I hate the sleep, but I can’t fight it anymore.

My dreams are a fever, a twisted, beautiful torture, and they are always the same.

I’m back in our room.

The lighting is soft, amber-gold. Jack kneels in front of me, his skin flushed, his eyes looking up at me with that absolute, devastating devotion that used to anchor my entire world. I can physically feel the incredible, desperate heat of his lips wrapping around me, his throat warm and tight as he takes me deep, his fingers locking into my hips. Every friction feels razor-sharp, a desperate hallucination of possession and survival.

I hear myself growling down at him, demanding he break for me, demanding he prove he was mine, driving into him with a wild, frantic rhythm that makes my vision blur at the edges.

Then he looks up through the sweat-matted hair clinging to his forehead, his body bleeding, his voice breaking in the dark.

Sol, please find me, Sol.

I wake with a jolt, my chest heaving, my skin slick with cold, sour sweat. The cruelty of my own mind is breaking me down piece by piece.

* * *

This morning brings no relief, just the same grey light filtering through the high windows and the endless, maddening hum of the air conditioning. CJ and Finn sit opposite me, going through fights searching for Jack, I’m leaning against the table, my eyes burning, when the heavy metal door swings open, and Reid walks in.

He’s a good looking guy, but he isn’t my dove.

Reid’s the cliche kind of golden-boy look that belonged on a air force recruitment poster, with thick, sun-bleached blond hair kept in a slightly wavy, effortless style and piercing blue eyes that were always calculating the exit route. But that was where the polish ended. His nose is broken, a permanent, crooked souvenir from a life spent trading blows in the ring, and his body is a slab of dense, corded muscle built for the professional MMA circuit that he’s dominated after leaving the Air Force.

He had gotten into it while serving, but when he left the military, he never lost the precision. Now, he flies for PalMerc, often taking the off-the-books contracts that required a pilot who could land on a dime and fight his way out of a dead end. A cowboy.

He was one of us, a man who carries the same darkness, the same jagged edges.

“I found him,” Reid said, his voice low, cutting through the hum of the screens like a razor.

My entire body locks up. Every breath stops. I don’t move, terrified that if I blinked, the words would vanish into thin air.

“What do you mean, you found him?” Finn asks, hope mixed with fear in his voice.

“It was an underground circuit on the outskirts. High-end, brutal stuff. I wasn’t looking for him, but… I saw him step into the ring.” He swallowed hard, looking away, his jaw tight. “He didn’t look good. But Silas… he was good. Fought like a ghost trying to tear his way out of a tomb. He just wasn’t good enough. He was half-beaten to death before two big men stepped in and stopped the fight.”