"So nothing changes." Her voice is flat, resigned to reality. "I'm already a target. At least this way, we're actively working to eliminate the threat instead of just surviving their attempts."
"The difference is federal protection versus private security. Brandon's team is excellent, but they're not equipped to handle the kind of coordinated assault The Glasshouse could launch if they decide you're worth the exposure risk."
Lana looks around her new apartment—the boxes waiting to be unpacked, the furniture that needs arranging, the home she just claimed as her own. "How long would protective custody last?"
"Until the major players are arrested and formally charged. Weeks, maybe months, depending on how fast Reeves can move." I watch her absorb this timeline, see the disappointment flickering across her features. "I know this isn'twhat you wanted. Finally getting your own space just to leave it again."
"No, it's not." She sets her phone down on the kitchen counter with careful precision. "But if that's what it takes to actually be safe instead of just pretending, then we do it. I'll go into protective custody, cooperate with the investigation, testify if it comes to it. And when it's over, I come back here and finally build the life I want."
"We build the life we want," I correct, because she needs to understand I'm part of this timeline too. "You're not doing any of this alone."
"You'd go into protective custody with me?" She turns to face me fully, something vulnerable and hopeful in her expression. "They'd even allow that?"
"We'll make them allow it." I cross the distance between us, frame her face with my hands. "Lana, I'm not letting you disappear into federal protection without me. We're doing this together—the investigation, the testimony, all of it. When you walk into that safe house or hotel room or wherever they decide to stash witnesses, I'm walking in right beside you."
"That could take months. Your job—"
"Can wait." I brush away the tears spilling down her cheeks. "You're more important than any of that. We're more important."
She rises on her toes, kisses me with desperate gratitude and something that feels like relief. When she pulls back, her voice is steady despite the emotion. "Then we call Agent Reeves tomorrow. Give her everything. And we do whatever it takes to tear The Glasshouse down completely."
"Tomorrow," I agree. "But tonight, I just want to be here. In your space. Building something that's yours."
"Ours," she corrects, and the word sounds like a promise. "If you want it to be."
"Yes." The word comes easier than expected. "Ours. I want that more than I've wanted anything in a long time." I move closer, eliminating the distance between us. "I want to unpack these boxes with you. I want to know where you keep coffee mugs and which side of the bed you prefer. I want to build something with you that isn't about crisis management or surviving threats. Just us. Choosing this."
Her eyes are bright with tears she's not trying to hide. "We haven't—since Tuesday. Before the Ezra meeting. I thought maybe you were waiting for me to be ready, or maybe you'd changed your mind about wanting—"
"I haven't changed my mind about anything." I cross the space between us because standing apart while having this conversation feels wrong. "I've been waiting because I wanted our next time to be about choice, not crisis. Not because you're scared or I'm protecting you or we're surviving something. Because we both want it. Because we're building a future, not just getting through today."
Her hands come up to my chest, fingers spreading over my heartbeat through my shirt. "I want it. I want you. Not because I'm scared or you saved my life or any of that. Because I love you."
The words hit me like physical impact. We haven't said them before. And this is Lana in her new apartment, safe and healing, choosing to love me anyway.
"I love you too." My hands frame her face, my thumbs brushing away tears that are spilling over now. "I've loved you since before I had any right to feel it. And I'll keep loving you even when it's hard, even when I have to choose vulnerabilityover control, even when my impulses make me want to monitor and manage instead of trust."
"I know you will." She brings her mouth close to mine but doesn't close the distance yet. "And I'll keep loving you even when I'm scared. Even when trusting feels dangerous. Even when my past makes me want to run instead of stay."
I claim her mouth, kissing her with all the tenderness I've been holding back for a week. "Build this with me. Let me love you in your actual home, not a borrowed space or safe house. Let this be real."
Her mouth opens like she’s been starving for this exact moment, tongue sliding hot and slow against mine, tasting me like she’s memorizing every second.
The sound she makes (low, hungry, almost a sob) vibrates straight into my chest. I walk her backward, step by deliberate step, until her spine meets the doorframe of the bedroom. Boxes are still stacked in the corners, but the late golden light pouring through the windows bathes everything in honey, and the bare mattress on the floor looks like a promise.
She claws at my shirt, dragging it up my torso with impatient fingers. I rip it over my head and let it fall. Her palms land on my skin instantly—warm, greedy—tracing the ridges of muscle like she’s reading braille, like she’s claiming every inch she’s only ever stolen glances of before. I hook my fingers under the hem of her sweater and peel it off slowly, savoring the way the fabric drags over her ribs, over the swell of her breasts, until she’s in nothing but a plain black bra and goosebumps. I unhook it with one hand; the straps slip down her arms and the cups fall away, revealing flushed, tight nipples that beg for my mouth.
I don’t make her wait.
I lower myself, mouth closing over one stiff peak, tongue flicking hard while my hand cups and kneads the other. She gasps my name, fingers spearing into my hair, hips rolling forward in a silent plea. I suck harder, teeth grazing just enough to make her cry out, then switch sides, licking and biting until she’s trembling and the scent of her arousal is thick in the air.
When I stand back up, her hands are frantic at my belt. Leather whispers free; zipper rasps down. I shove jeans and boxer-briefs off in one motion and my cock springs heavy and aching between us, already slick at the tip. Her eyes drop to it and her breath stutters—she reaches, wraps her fingers around me, strokes once, slow and firm, thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum over the head. The groan that tears out of me is raw, almost feral.
I lift her, palms sliding under the soft backs of her thighs, and she locks her ankles at the small of my back, pulling me in tight as I carry her the last few steps. We drop together onto the bare mattress in a tangle of limbs and heat, her slick folds gliding along the length of my cock until I’m throbbing against her.
I brace above her on one forearm, reach down with my free hand, and fist myself, thick and aching. I drag the swollen head through her wetness once, twice, parting her, coating myself in the glossy evidence of how badly she wants this. She whimpers into my mouth when I notch right at her entrance, the blunt crown pressing, stretching that first tight ring of muscle, teasing her open.
“Jax,” she breathes, hips rolling up greedily, trying to take more. “I need you inside me. Need to feel every inch of you.”
