"I promise."
She stays another hour, helping me process the lunch, reviewing what Mira might need, making sure I'm stable enough to be alone. By the time she leaves at 4:15 PM, I'm exhausted in ways that have nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with being “on” for hours while being systematically threatened.
I barely have time to splash water on my face and change out of the clothes that smell like Marconi's expensive air before there's a knock on my door.
4:28 PM. Jax is early.
I check the entrance camera feed on my phone first—verification remains instinct—and see Jax standing in the hallway. He's changed since this afternoon—dark jeans and a charcoal sweater, dressed down in a way that makes my small apartment feel less like a tactical briefing and more like something else entirely.
I open the door. He's carrying takeout bags that smell like Thai food and possibility.
"Figured you probably didn't eat lunch," he says. "And debrief is easier with food."
The gesture is thoughtful in ways that make my chest tighten. "Come in."
He enters, sets the takeout on my kitchen counter, starts unpacking containers with the practiced efficiency of someone who's done this before. Pad thai, spring rolls, green curry. Comfort food disguised as a strategy session.
"You have to be at The Dominion by six," I say, watching him arrange plates. "That doesn't give us much time."
"Enough time to make sure you're okay and review the recording." He pulls out two forks. "Lucien knows where I am. He'll understand if I'm fifteen minutes late."
We eat at my small kitchen table, the space barely large enough for two people but feeling less cramped than it should. And as we eat, we debrief—reviewing the recording, discussing Mira's likely strategy, mapping out responses to Ezra's allegations.
But underneath the tactical conversation, there's something else happening. The way our knees brush under the table and neither of us moves away. The way he passes me spring rolls and our fingers touch for a fraction too long. The way he looks at me when I'm not looking at him, and the way I catch him looking and don't call it out.
We're negotiating something beyond security protocols and legal strategy. Something that feels inevitable and terrifying at the same time.
"I reviewed the recording twice already," he says between bites. "Sent it to Lucien before I left. He's already got people digging into Ezra's background—business dealings, political connections, anything we can use as leverage."
"And did they find anything?"
"Too early to tell. But Lucien's optimistic." He sets down his fork. "The recording is strong, Lana. Really strong. Ezra's threats are explicit enough that Mira can use them to show his motivations aren't about justice—they're about control and money."
"Like Gabriel's were."
"Like Gabriel's were," he agrees. "The Pope family seems to specialize in control disguised as concern."
We finish eating faster than either of us probably intended, and he helps me clean up even though I insist I can do it myself. The kitchen feels smaller with both of us moving through it, our bodies navigating the limited space with an awareness that has nothing to do with efficiency.
By 5:47 PM, we're done. The containers are cleared, dishes washed, and Jax is checking his phone for the time.
"I should go." He doesn't move toward the door. "My shift starts in thirteen minutes."
"You'll be late."
"Worth it." The admission is casual, but the weight behind it isn't. "Are you okay? Really?"
The honest answer is complicated. "I'm terrified of Ezra. Of public proceedings. Of having every detail of my marriage examined and judged." I force myself to hold his gaze. "But I'm less terrified than I was three hours ago. So thank you. For being at Marconi's. For this." I gesture at the cleaned kitchen, the evidence of his care.
"That's what this is." He finally moves toward the door, but pauses before opening it. "Not fixing. Not controlling. Just being here while you figure out how to survive the next thing."
The distinction between Gabriel's "care" and Jax's presence has never been clearer.
He opens the door, then turns back one more time. "Text me after your meeting with Mira tomorrow. Let me know what she says about strategy."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone in my apartment with the smell of Thai food and the ghost of his presence.
I shower, washing away the last residue of Marconi's and Ezra's calculated manipulation. Change into comfortable clothes—leggings and an oversized sweater that was mine before Gabriel, that he never commented on because he never saw me wear it. It’s a small reclamation of autonomy.
