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She follows me like a soldier with utmost faith in her commanding officer as we slip into a grove of olive trees. Then past it, to the little house on the hill.

She watches as I push a code into the lockbock on the porch. “Is this an official Mi6 safe house?”

I shake my head, grab the key, meet her at the door. “It’s off the books.”

Something fills her eyes. An expression I’ve never seen on her gorgeous face. Some mix of nostalgia, curiosity, fear.

Then she blinks and she’s back to an empty expression.

Dissociation.

PTSD, probably.

Victim is the one role Jamie never plays. She’s been adamant about her hatred of that dynamic since the day we met.

Don’t think you can scare me with your job, Agent Locke. I’ve never written a damsel in distress in my life, and I’m not about to play one now. I only engage with men if I’m sure we’re on even ground.

There’s something I’m missing, but now isn’t the time to press the issue. I need to help her find her footing, so she can tell me what she knows, and we can keep ourselves alive.

I offer my hand.

My body warms as she takes it.

I pull her into my arms. She melts into me, one molecule at a time.

Affection floods my veins, but I don’t let it overpower me.

I give myself one perfect moment to believe we’re old lovers, then I snap into action and help her inside.

Jamie’s eyes go wide as she takes in the space. “You always talked about retiring to a Greek island.”

She studies the clean white walls, tile floor, sleek blue couch.

She approaches a photo of an old castle outside of Paris and traces the black frame.

“Yeah, this is yours.” There’s affection in her voice. Love even. That tone that means I know you and you’re ridiculous and I adore it.

The joy of it fills her for a moment, then she drops the cell on the desk, and she wilts.

All the energy drains from her at once.

"He told me he called his handler. I saw an outgoing call, but I didn’t recognize the number, and even on airplane mode, I don’t think we should risk keeping this with us," she says as she drops onto the couch and curls into herself.

"What’s your professional opinion?" I ask.

She traces a line on the blue leather as she considers the question. “I think we have a few hours before someone comes looking for that laptop.”

“If there’s anything important on it,” I say.

“Did you check?” she asks.

“It’s encrypted.”

“He’s probably not hiding his Harry Potter fanfiction.”

My lips curl into a smile. That’s such a Jamie thing to say. She’s still here.

For a moment, she smiles too. Then the weight of everything hits her, and she wilts again. “If they find us here, they’ll kill us.”