I take the necklace, but when I try to fasten the clasp behind my neck, my fingers fumble. The catch is small, my hands less steady than I want them to be.
"Here." Jax moves behind me, and suddenly his presence is different. More immediate. I can feel him at my back, close but not touching, and when his hands reach around to take the necklace, his fingers brush my neck.
The touch is professional. Necessary. His hands are warm, efficient, fastening the clasp with the practiced ease of someone who's done tactical equipment installations hundreds of times. But the sensation of his fingers against my skin, the awareness of his proximity, the way I have to hold very still while he works—it's intimate in ways that have nothing to do with security protocols.
"There." His voice is quieter than before, and I realize he's still standing close behind me, close enough that I can feel his breath against my hair.
I turn, and we're suddenly face to face in the narrow kitchen, maybe a foot of space between us. The pendant settles just below my collarbone, weight present but not uncomfortable. His eyes drop to it, then back to my face, and for a moment neither of us moves.
"It feels like wearing evidence," I say, my voice coming out quieter than intended.
"It is actually wearing evidence. That's the point." He doesn't step back, and I realize I'm not stepping back either. We're just standing here, too close, both aware of the proximity and neither addressing it. "But Lana? The necklace doesn't change anything. You're not performing for the recording. You're just having a conversation that happens to be documented. Stay honest. Stay calm. Let Ezra reveal his intentions while you maintain composure."
"And if I can't maintain composure? If he pushes hard enough that I break?"
"Then you break. We document that too. Show that his questioning was designed to destabilize you, that he was weaponizing your trauma instead of seeking truth." His hand lifts slightly, like he's considering reaching for me, then drops back to his side. The almost-touch is more charged than contact would have been. "There's no version of Thursday where you lose. Either you stay composed and he looks predatory, or you break, and he looks cruel. Both outcomes support our narrative."
The logic is sound. Ruthless, but sound. And I'm standing too close to him in my kitchen, aware of his body and minein ways that feel dangerous for entirely different reasons than Gabriel's proximity ever did.
"You're very good at this," I manage. "Constructing frameworks that make survival look inevitable."
"I'm good at threat assessment and strategic planning. The survival part is on you." He finally steps back, and I can breathe again. Or maybe I just notice I've been holding my breath. "But for what it's worth? I think you're stronger than you believe you are. Gabriel spent five years teaching you that you were fragile. You're not. You're just carefully controlled. There's a difference."
The observation lands like recognition. Like he sees the distinction I've been trying to articulate to Dr. Cross for months.
"Thank you," I say. "For not treating me like I'm broken."
"You're not broken. You're reconstructing. Those are different processes." He picks up his coffee. "Now—walk me through what you're going to say to your attorney tomorrow morning. Practice framing Gabriel's death the way we discussed."
So we spend the next forty minutes rehearsing. We move to the living room, the kitchen is too small, but the apartment itself feels intimate. Jax sits on one end of my second-hand couch, I take the other end, and we run through questions and answers like we're preparing for trial.
Except it doesn't feel like trial prep. It feels like two people learning each other's rhythms, the way he asks questions and waits for my answers, the way I start to anticipate his follow-ups. We're building patterns of communication that go beyond tactics.
Halfway through, he leans forward to make a point, and his knee brushes mine. Neither of us pulls away. We justcontinue the conversation with that point of contact maintained, casual and charged simultaneously.
"Yes, Gabriel was controlling," I practice saying. "Yes, I was afraid. Yes, there was a fight the night he died. No, I don't remember exact details. Yes, I've been in trauma therapy since his death."
"Good," Jax says. "But try it again without the hesitation before 'I was afraid.' Own it. Don't perform it."
I try again. And again. Each repetition brings us fractionally closer, leaning toward each other across the couch cushions, engaged in preparation that feels increasingly like something else.
By the time we finish, the morning has shifted into early afternoon. Sunlight angles differently through my windows, and I'm exhausted in ways that have nothing to do with rehearsal and everything to do with maintaining careful distance from someone I'm increasingly aware I want closer.
"You'll be fine," Jax says as he's gathering his things. "Just remember: you're not on trial. You're telling your truth. Ezra's the one who has to prove his allegations."
"And if he can prove them?"
"Then we deal with reality instead of speculation." He pauses at my door, and the space feels loaded with things neither of us is saying. "I'll be monitoring the necklace feed tomorrow. If anything goes wrong, I'll know immediately. You're not alone in this."
The reassurance is simultaneously comforting and concerning. But I just nod.
"Jax?" I say as he's leaving. "That text last night. About emptiness and surveillance. Did you mean it?"
He's quiet for a moment, and I watch his hand tighten on the doorframe. Then: "Every word. You're the first person in two years who made watching feel like connection instead of compulsion. That terrifies me. But it's also the only thing that feels real."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone in my apartment with cameras watching and a recording device around my neck and the uncomfortable knowledge that I'm becoming entangled with someone who might be saving me or claiming me, and I can't tell the difference yet.
What I do know is that when his fingers brushed my neck fastening the necklace, when his knee pressed against mine on the couch, when we stood too close in my kitchen—I didn't want to pull away.
