Andre is driving us through downtown Miramont toward The Gateway, his earpiece active as he coordinates with building security during the drive. When we finally reach the safe house garage and he parks in the secure spot, Jax doesn't immediately open the door.
"Status?" Jax asks, hand on the door handle but waiting for confirmation.
"Building security reports no suspicious activity since we left this morning. The perimeter is secure. We're clear to enter." Andre's been getting updates the entire drive.
We exit the vehicle, Jax maintaining close protection despite Andre's confirmation.
When we're finally inside the safe house, Jax immediately moves to the bathroom. I hear water running, hear him scrubbing Reese's blood off his hands with focused intensity.
I stand in the living room, staring at nothing. These clothes smell like gunpowder and blood - they need to come off. Solange will want to know what happened. Dr. Cross would probably say I need an immediate trauma processing session after witnessing violent death. The Glasshouse tried to kill me today despite the settlement, which means everything we thought was resolved isn't.
Jax emerges from the bathroom, his hands clean now, his shirt still covered in blood but at least his skin is no longer marked by what he had to do to keep me alive. He crosses to me, frames my face with hands that are gentle despite having just used lethal force.
"You're safe," he says, like he's trying to convince both of us. "The police confirmed the other attackers fled. Building security is reviewing all footage. The Glasshouse's attempt failed. You're safe."
"Am I?" The question comes out smaller than I intended. "Or did they just fail this time? Will they try again? Will there always be someone waiting in parking garages or breaking into apartments or finding ways to eliminate the threat I represent?"
"I don't know." He's being honest rather than reassuring. "But Lana, today proved something important. You're not as easy to kill as they thought. And every failed attempt makes them more visible, more vulnerable to exposure. Eventually the cost of trying outweighs the benefit of succeeding."
Eventually. Such a vague timeline. Eventually could be tomorrow or next month or never, just an endless string of days wondering if today is when they try again.
"I'm tired," I tell him, because it's the only true thing I can articulate right now. "I'm so tired of being afraid. Of pretending to have strength I don't feel."
"I know." He pulls me against his chest, holds me in ways that feel inadequate for the scope of what we just survived. "But you don't have to be strong right now. You don't have to do anything. You just survived attempted murder and recovered a traumatic memory. You're allowed to fall apart."
The permission is what breaks me. I'm crying now, full-body sobs that I've been holding back since Reese died, since the memory returned, since I realized I've been carrying guilt for six months over a death I didn't cause but couldn't prevent. Jax just holds me through it, doesn't try to fix or minimize, just provides solid presence while I fall apart.
Eventually the crying subsides into exhausted hiccups. My face is pressed against his bloody shirt, my hands fisted in the fabric, and I'm so tired I can barely stand.
"Come on," he says gently. "You need to lie down and process this horizontally instead of trying to stay upright."
He pulls off his blood-soaked shirt before we reach the bedroom, tosses it aside to deal with later. Then he guides me to sit on the edge of the bed, helps me out of clothes that smell like gunpowder and violence, and retrieves one of the pajama sets Brandon bought that first day.
"Can you stand?" he asks gently.
I nod, letting him help me into the bathroom where he runs warm water and guides me through washing my face and hands. The mechanical actions feel distant, like I'm watchingsomeone else go through motions after surviving attempted murder.
Back in the bedroom, he helps me into the clean pajamas with the same gentle efficiency he'd use with someone injured. I let him, too exhausted to care about independence or dignity. Then I'm in bed and he's lying beside me in just his jeans, his arm around me while I curl against his bare chest.
"Will it always feel this overwhelming?" I ask into the dimness. "The memory coming back, watching someone die—all of it?"
"I don't know." His hand traces soothing patterns on my back. "Trauma affects everyone differently. Some people process quickly, some take years. But Lana, you don't have to figure it all out tonight. You just survived something most people never experience."
"I keep seeing it. Reese dying. And then Gabriel—" I stop, unable to articulate the collision of past and present violence. "It all blurs together."
"That's normal after shock. Your brain is trying to process multiple traumas simultaneously." His voice is steady, grounding. "Tomorrow you can call Dr. Cross. Work through what came back. But right now, you just need to rest."
I want to tell him everything—about Gabriel's foot slipping, about my hands failing, about the terrible relief underneath the horror. But forming those thoughts into coherent narrative feels impossible.
"Thank you," I finally say. "For saving me. For not making me explain everything right now when I can barely think straight."
"You don't have to thank me." His arm tightens around me. "I'm just doing what I do. Keeping you alive."
Keeping me alive. Such a simple description for something so complicated. Jax has become the person I reach for when everything falls apart, the presence that makes danger feel manageable, the lens through which I experience safety.
Eventually exhaustion wins over trauma. I fall asleep pressed against him, his heartbeat steady under my ear, the returned memory waiting for me to be strong enough to fully unpack it.
CHAPTER 27: JAX
