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7 years ago today, Jon Moxley wrestled his first match after leaving WWE and made his New Japan Pro Wrestling debut winning the IWGP United States Heavyweight Championship from Juice Robinson
Jack learns that the best way to help you calm down when you're spiralling in a pit of anxiety is to lie on you like a weighted blanket.
Which would be fine, if he wasn't so damn in love with you.
The first time it happens, itâs an accident.
Sort of.
Jack Reacher has spent most of his life learning how to read people fast. Itâs survival. Instinct. The tiny details matterâthe twitch in someoneâs jaw before they swing, the shift of weight before they run, the too-calm voice hiding panic.
So when he looks at you across the cheap motel room and notices your breathing going shallow, he knows immediately somethingâs wrong.
Youâre sitting on the edge of the bed with your elbows on your knees, fingers digging so hard into your sleeves it looks painful.
The TV is on low in the background. Some late-night infomercial buzzing static into the room.
Rain taps against the windows.
And you look like youâre drowning.
Reacher studies you for a second.
âYou hurt?â
You shake your head quickly. Too quickly.
âNo.â
Lie.
He leans back in the chair near the window, watching carefully. âSomebody threaten you?â
âNo.â
Another lie.
Not a dangerous one. Not the kind he usually deals with.
This is different.
You stand abruptly and start pacing the motel room. Three steps one direction. Turn. Three steps back.
Your hands shake.
Reacherâs eyes narrow slightly.
Heâs seen panic attacks before. Soldiers. Civilians. Witnesses after bad scenes.
But yours is quieter.
Like youâre trying to suffocate it before anyone notices.
âHey,â he says evenly.
You stop pacing immediately, like you got caught doing something embarrassing.
âSit down.â
âIâm fine.â
âDidnât say you werenât.â
Your jaw tightens.
Then your breathing hitches sharply enough that even you seem startled by it.
Reacher stands.
At six-foot-five, built like something people should probably fear on instinct alone, he takes up most of the motel room just by moving through it.
Usually that calms you down.
You somehow look more panicked.
âSorry,â you blurt suddenly, backing toward the bathroom. âIâm sorry, I just need a secondââ
Reacher catches your wrist before you can disappear.
Gentle.
Always gentler than people expect him to be.
Your pulse is racing under his fingers.
âLook at me.â
You try. You really do.
But your eyes are glassy now, breaths too fast, shoulders pulled tight enough to snap.
âCanâtââ you whisper.
Reacher makes a decision.
Fast.
Same way he always does.
He guides you backward toward the bed and sits you down before kneeling in front of you.
âListen carefully,â he says, voice low and steady. âYouâre okay.â
You shake your head immediately.
âYes, you are.â
âI canât breatheââ
âYou are breathing.â
Your chest spasms with another sharp inhale.
Reacher thinks.
Then moves.
Before you can question it, he shifts onto the bed beside you and pulls you sideways with him.
You make a startled noise as he maneuvers you flat against the mattress.
And thenâ
He lies on top of you.
Not all his weight. Heâs careful. Precise even now.
One massive arm wraps around your waist. His chest pins yours against the mattress just enough to ground you.
Solid.
Heavy.
Warm.
You freeze in shock.
Reacher keeps his voice calm near your ear.
âBreathe with me.â
Your brain short-circuits for a moment purely becauseâ
Jack Reacher is lying on top of you.
Fully.
Like some kind of enormous human security blanket.
Objectively, this should not help.
And yetâ
The pressure eases something awful clawing at the inside of your ribs.
Your breaths still shake, but they stop coming so fast.
Reacher notices immediately.
âThere you go,â he murmurs.
One of his hands slides slowly up and down your back in a steady rhythm.
Your body, traitorous thing that it is, starts unclenching inch by inch.
âOh my God,â you mumble weakly into the motel pillow.
Reacher tilts his head slightly. âWhat?â
âThis is humiliating.â
âNo, it isnât.â
âYouâre literally crushing me.â
âYou seem calmer.â
ââŠI hate that youâre right.â
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly:
âYou want me to move?â
The answer should be yes.
Absolutely yes.
Instead, your fingers curl instinctively into the fabric of his t-shirt.
ââŠNot yet.â
Reacher goes still for half a second.
Then settles more comfortably around you.
âOkay.â
After that, it becomes a thing.
Not intentionally at first.
The second time happens two weeks later in Nebraska after a diner shooting, too many sirens, and one particularly nasty interrogation.
You make it all the way back to the motel bathroom before the panic starts crawling up your throat.
Reacher finds you sitting on the floor beside the tub.
âYou spiraling?â he asks plainly.
You glare weakly. âWhat gave it away?â
He crouches in front of you.
You look exhausted. Eyes rimmed red. Hands trembling.
Reacher considers his options for approximately two seconds.
Then he opens his arms slightly.
âCâmere.â
You stare at him.
ââŠSeriously?â
âYou got a better idea?â
No.
You really, really donât.
So you let the giant ex-military drifter haul you against his chest and eventually down onto the motel bed where he performs his now apparently patented anxiety-intervention maneuver.
Which is how you end up flat on your back with Jack Reacher stretched over you like a six-foot-five weighted blanket.
Again.
âThis is insane,â you mumble.
âYouâre breathing better.â
âYouâre very smug for someone using himself as emotional support furniture.â
Reacher huffs a quiet laugh against your hair.
The sound surprises both of you.
Because Reacher doesnât laugh often.
But youâve started noticing something lately:
He does around you.
The problem is this:
Jack Reacher is dangerous to love.
Not because heâd hurt you.
Never that.
But because he leaves.
Always.
No apartment. No roots. No permanent address.
He drifts through towns like a storm rolling across state lines.
And you know better than to mistake temporary shelter for permanence.
Unfortunately, your heart doesnât seem to care.
Which becomes a serious issue somewhere around Missouri, when Reacher pins you gently beneath him after another panic spiral and your stupid, hopeless brain suddenly notices things it really shouldnât.
Like how warm he is.
How careful.
How impossibly safe you feel wrapped beneath all that strength.
How every inch of him seems focused entirely on protecting you from the worldâand maybe from yourself.
Itâs unbearable.
Youâre in trouble.
Real trouble.
Because youâre pretty sure Jack Reacher is starting to feel it too.
It shows in little things first.
The way his hand lingers at your waist after helping you out of cars.
How his gaze tracks you across every room automatically.
How he sleeps lighter when youâre nearby.
How violent he becomes when someone scares you.
That last one is particularly telling.
A man in Oklahoma grabs your wrist outside a gas station.
Reacher breaks his nose before you even fully process whatâs happening.
The guy hits the pavement hard, shouting curses through blood.
Reacher steps between you and the man instantly.
Murderously calm.
âBad decision,â he says.
You touch Reacherâs arm carefully.
âItâs okay.â
âNo,â he says flatly. âIt isnât.â
The terrifying thing?
He means it.
Entirely.
Later that night, you sit on the motel bed while Reacher paces near the window.
Restless.
You know him well enough now to recognize agitation.
âYou gonna wear a hole in the floor?â you ask softly.
âNo.â
âYou seem upset.â
âIâm thinking.â
âDangerous pastime.â
Normally that earns at least the ghost of a smirk.
Not tonight.
Reacher stops pacing.
Looks at you.
âYou didnât pull away.â
You blink. âFrom what?â
âThat guy grabbed you. You froze.â His jaw tightens. âThen you apologized to me afterward.â
Oh.
Oh.
You stare down at your hands.
âItâs a reflex.â
Reacherâs expression darkens in a way that would terrify most people alive.
âSomebody hurt you.â
Not a question.
You swallow hard.
âNot anymore.â
Silence.
Heavy.
Then Reacher crosses the room in three strides and kneels in front of you.
Massive hands settle lightly on your knees.
âLook at me.â
You do.
And God, thatâs your first mistake.
Because Jack Reacher looks at you like you matter.
Like youâre precious.
Like heâd tear apart the world with his bare hands if it kept you safe.
âYou never have to apologize to me for being scared,â he says quietly.
Emotion climbs abruptly into your throat.
Dangerous. Sharp.
You try to look away.
Reacher doesnât let you.
One large hand cups your jaw carefully.
âYou hear me?â
Your eyes burn.
âYeah.â
He studies your face for a long moment.
Then his thumb brushes under one eye.
So gentle it nearly wrecks you.
âYou spiraling now?â he asks softly.
A watery laugh escapes you. âMaybe a little.â
âOkay.â
And thenâlike this is the most natural thing in the worldâhe stands, guides you backward onto the bed, and lies over you again.
Heavy. Warm. Safe.
Your face presses into the hollow of his throat this time.
Reacherâs arms tighten around you immediately.
Like instinct.
You breathe.
Slowly.
Steadily.
His hand moves up and down your spine.
And suddenly the words slip out before you can stop them.
âI think Iâm in love with you.â
Everything stops.
Even your breathing.
Reacher goes completely motionless above you.
You close your eyes immediately.
Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. Youâve confessed feelings to a human weighted blanket.
Humiliation. Death. Oblivion.
âForget I said that,â you mumble into his shirt.
Reacher does not move.
Does not speak.
Your stomach drops straight to hell.
Thenâ
One enormous hand cradles the back of your head carefully.
Reacher exhales slowly against your hair.
âThatâs a problem,â he says quietly.
Pain slices through your chest.
You nod once. Tiny.
âYeah. I know.â
âNot the way you think.â
You frown slightly.
Reacher shifts just enough to look down at you.
His expression is unreadable to most people.
Not to you anymore.
You see it instantly.
Fear.
Not of you.
For you.
âI leave,â he says simply.
There it is.
The truth of him.
Roads and bus stations and motel rooms and no staying anywhere long enough to become part of it.
Your chest aches.
âI know.â
Reacher studies your face like heâs searching for damage.
âAnd Iâm in love with you too.â
Your breath catches.
Completely catches.
âWhat?â
His mouth twitches faintly, almost frustrated with himself.
âYou heard me.â
You stare at him in stunned silence.
Jack Reacherâwho speaks in short sentences and guarded looks and brutal efficiencyâjust handed you the softest part of himself with bare hands.
Carefully.
Like he doesnât know how to do this without breaking something.
âYouâre terrible at timing,â you whisper.
Something warm flickers in his eyes.
âProbably.â
You smile shakily.
Then his forehead lowers against yours.
And for the first time since you met him, Jack Reacher sounds uncertain.
âI donât know how to stay,â he admits.
Your heart nearly breaks for him.
So you slide one hand up into his hair and hold him there gently.
âYou could learn.â
Reacher looks at you for a very long moment.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he settles his full weight more securely around you.
Not trapping.
Not restraining.
Choosing.
Staying.
âFor tonight,â he says quietly.
It isnât forever.
Not yet.
But laterâmonths laterâit becomes apartments with badly brewed coffee and his boots by the door.
It becomes toothbrushes left beside each other and his hand automatically finding yours in crowded places.
It becomes soft mornings and hard kisses and the astonishing realization that Jack Reacher, eternal drifter, keeps coming back.
Eventually, he stops leaving altogether.
And sometimes, on the bad nights when anxiety still claws its way into your chest, he pulls you against him without a word and sprawls over you with that same careful pressure.
Your giant, terrifying, hopelessly beloved weighted blanket.