When the pizza arrives, we eat sitting on the floor of her living room surrounded by half-unpacked boxes, sharing slices and planning where furniture should go and discussing whether she wants art on the walls or prefers the industrial aesthetic of exposed brick.
This is what I was trying to protect when I first started watching her. Not just her physical safety, but her ability to have moments like this—mundane and perfect, ordinary and precious. The difference is now I'm part of the moment instead of watching from the outside. Now I get to help build the life she deserves instead of just monitoring it from a distance.
"What are you thinking?" she asks, catching me staring at her with what must be an obvious expression.
"That I'm exactly where I want to be." I reach for her hand, lace our fingers together. "With you. In your home. Building something real."
She squeezes my hand, her eyes bright with emotion. "Our home."
"Our home," I agree.
And it feels entirely true.
CHAPTER 28: LANA
I wake to sunlight streaming through windows, in an apartment that belongs to me, with Jax's arm draped across my waist like an anchor to something real.
For a moment I just exist in this feeling—safe, settled, loved—before the reality of what we need to do today crashes back in. Agent Reeves. The files. Federal investigation. Protective custody that could last months.
But right now, none of that has happened yet. Right now, I'm just a woman waking up next to the man she loves in a home they're building together.
Jax stirs behind me, pulls me closer against his chest, and I can feel he's already awake from the way his hand splays across my stomach with possessive familiarity. "Morning," he murmurs against my neck.
"Morning." I turn in his arms and find him watching me with an expression that's part tenderness, part residual heat from last night. "We should probably find those sheets at some point."
"Probably." His hand slides up my side, tracing the curve of my ribs with fingers that know exactly how to make me shiver. "Or we could just stay here and christen a few more surfaces before we have to deal with reality."
The suggestion sends want pooling in my belly, but I force myself to focus. "We need to call Agent Reeves. The sooner we hand everything over, the sooner this actually ends."
"I know." He presses a kiss to my forehead, then my cheek, then the corner of my mouth. "But I texted Elias last night after we unpacked a few boxes. He coordinated with Agent Reeves - she's expecting our call at two PM. We have time."
Time. Such a luxury after weeks of living crisis to crisis, never knowing if we'd survive long enough to plan more than a few hours ahead. Now we have an entire morning stretching before us—empty and ours and full of mundane possibilities like coffee and unpacking boxes and maybe, if we're lucky, the kind of intimacy that comes from choosing each other without fear driving the decision.
"Coffee first," I say, because I need caffeine before I can process anything more complicated than basic human function. "Then we figure out what to tell Solange, how to coordinate the file transfer, all of it."
"Coffee first," he agrees, already untangling himself from me and reaching for his jeans.
We navigate the apartment in various states of undress, finally locating the box with the coffee maker and mugs buried under kitchen supplies we haven't sorted yet. Jax handles the brewing while I find my phone and start composing a message to Solange about needing to meet today, preferably before our call with Agent Reeves.
Her response comes back almost immediately:Already compiled everything. Can meet whenever you need. This is the right move, Lana.
I show Jax the message, watch him nod with the grim satisfaction of someone who knows we're doing the only thing that makes sense. "She can meet us here in an hour," he says, already checking his watch. "That gives us time to review everything before we call Reeves at two."
"Perfect." I accept the coffee mug he hands me and take that first perfect sip that makes consciousness feel bearable. "And after? Once we've handed everything over and set this in motion?"
"Then we wait." His expression darkens with the reality we're both avoiding. "Reeves will want to verify the files, cross-reference the information, and probably interview us separately to confirm our stories match. It could be days before she's ready to move forward with arrests, and during that time, you're vulnerable."
"We're vulnerable," I correct, because he keeps forgetting he's part of this equation too. "The Glasshouse won't just target me if they figure out those who have helped me with this, those who have seen the files."
"Which is why I already texted Brandon about increasing security protocols until federal protection kicks in." He pulls out his phone, shows me the message thread. "Andre is downstairs in the parking garage. Derek is covering the building entrance. No one gets to you without going through them first."
The fact that he arranged this without telling me should probably bother me more than it does. Instead I just feel grateful that someone is thinking tactically while I'm still processing the emotional weight of what we're about to do.
"I have therapy at eleven," I say, because Dr. Cross scheduled an emergency session after I called her about the recovered memory. "I need to tell her everything before I hand it over to the FBI. Process it properly so I'm not just dumping unfiltered trauma onto federal investigators."
Jax sets down his coffee mug, gives me his full attention in ways that still catch me off guard. "What do you remember? About that night with Gabriel?"
I've been avoiding this conversation since the parking garage, but he deserves to know before I tell my therapist, before I testify to federal agents, before it becomes part of someofficial record that reduces my husband's death to evidence in a criminal case.
