She's quiet, her jaw set.
"I'm not asking you to stop. I'm asking you to scale up. Hire proper security. Make better use of Cerberus' tactical supportand intelligence. Keep your operational control, but do it with a team that can protect you while you do your work."
"You've never pushed this before."
"Because your methods worked. The threat level was manageable. You were careful." I meet her eyes. "But someone just tried to kill you by using a teenage girl as bait. They knew exactly which buttons to push. That changes everything."
She sets down the coffee, stands carefully, her body protesting. "I need a shower. And then I need to check on Grace and her mother."
"Jordan—"
"I heard you." She heads toward the bathroom, then pauses in the doorway, looking back at me. "You're right. About the threat level changing. About needing better security." Her fingers touch the collar at her throat. "We'll figure it out. Together."
It's not a detailed plan, but it's acknowledgment. She's not fighting me on this, and that's significant.
I let her have her shower, giving her time and space to process. While she's in the bathroom, I check in with the security team Sawyer sent. Two men, both former special forces, both on high alert. They've been rotating shifts, watching approaches, monitoring communications. Nothing suspicious so far.
When Jordan emerges, clean and bandaged, we head downstairs to meet with the Swiss authorities.
We spend Christmas Day giving statements to Swiss police, coordinating with Major Adeyemi, and making sure all the hostages have what they need. The process is exhausting, repetitive, as we're questioned by multiple agencies—Swissfederal police, Interpol, intelligence services. Everyone wants to know exactly what happened, who said what, who shot whom.
Jordan is patient through most of it, but I can see her energy flagging as the day wears on. The adrenaline has long since faded, leaving her with just the pain and exhaustion.
Grace and her mother are being escorted back to Nigeria by a military security team. Major Adeyemi herself is accompanying them, along with three of her unit. When it's time for them to leave, Grace hugs Jordan goodbye for a long time, both of them crying.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For everything. For three years ago, and for last night."
"Stay protected," Jordan tells her, holding the girl's face between her hands. "And remember—you're not a victim. You're a survivor. You're strong, and you're free, and no one gets to take that from you."
"Because of you."
"Because of you," Jordan corrects firmly. "You survived. You escaped. You rebuilt your life. I just helped with the logistics."
As they leave, Jordan sags against me, exhausted emotionally if not physically. I wrap my arm around her waist, taking some of her weight.
"Come on," I say gently. "Let's get you back to the room. You need rest."
"I need..." She trails off, looking up at me with an expression I know well. Heat and vulnerability mixed together. "I need you."
Not rest. Not comfort. She needs the physical affirmation that we're alive, that we survived, that we're still connected. She needs to feel me, to know this is real, to ground herself in something primal and immediate.
"You're injured," I remind her, though my body is already responding to the heat in her eyes. "Bruised, exhausted?—"
"I don't care." She takes my hand, pulling me toward the elevator. "I need to feel you. Need to know this is real. Please, Fitz."
The answer is obvious.
We ride the elevator in silence, the tension building with each floor. By the time we reach our room, her breathing is shallow, her pupils dilated. The pulse jumps in her throat, just above the pearl collar.
Inside, I secure the door, check the windows, confirm we're alone. Then I turn to face her.
"Are you sure about this?" I ask, giving her one more chance to back out. "You're hurt. If we do this, I'm not going to be gentle."
"I don't want gentle." She's already pulling off her borrowed sweater, revealing bare shoulders marked with fingerprints. "I want to feel you. I want to forget everything else for a while."
"Stop." My voice drops into the register that makes her spine straighten. "Put that back on."
She freezes, the sweater clutched in her hands, confusion flickering across her face.
