"Too risky." Solange's expression is grim. "The Glasshouse has resources, connections, people who monitor data traffic. The moment an encrypted file that size moves through any network, someone could flag it, trace it back to me or the foundation. This way, it goes from my hand to yours to Agent Reeves. Clean chain of custody, no digital footprint."
"That's smart," Jax says, clearly approving of the operational security. "Agent Reeves will appreciate the precaution too. Shows we understand the threat level."
Solange meets my eyes with fierce determination. "Once you hand this over, the FBI has everything they need to dismantle The Glasshouse completely. But until that drive is in federal custody, we're all vulnerable. So you call Agent Reeves, you arrange the meeting, and you don't leave that drive sitting around where anyone could access it."
The reality of how quickly my life is about to change hits me with physical force. I look around at my new space, this apartment I just moved into, this home I was supposed to build with Jax, this normal life I thought I'd finally have—all of it on hold indefinitely while federal investigators use Gabriel's files toprosecute people who thought they were untouchable, while I go into protective custody.
"Hey." Jax's hand finds mine, squeezes gently, reading my thoughts by the look on my face. "This isn't permanent. It's just until the major arrests are made. Then you come back here, and we finish unpacking these boxes and we build the life you deserve."
"We build the life we deserve," I correct.
"We build the life we deserve," he agrees.
Solange starts gathering her laptop and equipment, clearly giving us space before therapy and federal calls and everything that comes after. "Whatever else you need after you talk to Reeves. Just text me."
When she's gone, Jax and I are left in the apartment we've barely started living in, surrounded by boxes we haven't unpacked, building a future we're about to put on hold for an indefinite timeline.
"We should get ready for therapy," I say, even though what I really want is to crawl back into bed and pretend today isn't happening.
"We should," he agrees, but neither of us moves.
Instead we stand in the kitchen of my new apartment, holding hands like teenagers, stealing a few more minutes of normalcy before everything changes again.
"Dr. Cross already knows the basics," I tell him, because we discussed this on the phone yesterday when I called her about the recovered memory. "She'll want to process it more deeply during the session, but she understands what happened. What I remembered."
"Good." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "That makes today easier. You don't have to explain everything from scratch."
"Just refine it. Process the guilt, the relief, prepare for what federal investigators might ask." I lean against the counter, suddenly exhausted by the weight of what's coming. "We have three hours before we need to leave for her office."
Three hours. Three hours of normalcy before therapy sessions and FBI calls and possibly protective custody. Three hours before everything gets complicated again.
Jax seems to read my thoughts. He pulls me closer, frames my face with his hands, and when he kisses me it's with the kind of tenderness that makes my throat tight. "We don't have to spend these hours being anxious," he says against my mouth. "We could spend them doing something else. Together."
"In my apartment." The words come out soft, almost wondering. "Making it ours before we have to leave it."
"Exactly." His hands slide down my sides, settle on my hips with possessive familiarity. "We christened the bedroom yesterday. But there are other rooms. Other surfaces."
Heat pools in my belly at the suggestion, at the promise in his voice. "You want to—"
"I want to make love to you in every room of this apartment," he says, and his voice has dropped to that register that makes me shiver.
The idea sends want coursing through me. "The living room," I hear myself say. "I want—I want to remember us there. On the couch we picked out together."
His eyes darken with desire. "Then that's where we'll be."
We move toward the couch, both of us navigating around unpacked boxes with the same focus we had last night. But this feels different—less about christening virgin territory and more about claiming space that's already ours, layering new memories over old fears.
When we get to the couch, I sit, and he follows me down with the kind of controlled grace that comes from knowing exactly what he wants. His mouth finds mine, kisses me deeply while his hands work the buttons of my shirt with practiced efficiency.
"You're wearing too many clothes," he murmurs against my lips.
"So are you." I tug at his shirt, help him pull it over his head, let my hands explore the terrain of muscle and warm skin I've touched before but never tire of discovering. His body is familiar now in ways that feel earned rather than stolen—every scar, every line of definition, every place that makes him gasp when I touch it properly.
He strips me down with the same careful attention, removing each piece of clothing like he's unwrapping something precious. When I'm naked on the couch, he sits back on his heels and just looks at me.
"Beautiful," he says, and the word carries weight beyond physical appearance. "Every part of you. Everything you've survived, everything you've built, everything you're choosing."
I reach for him, pull him down until his weight settles over me, and the feeling of skin against skin makes me arch into him with desperate need. "Show me," I tell him.
