As the day wound down, Sam's last session ended, and she gathered her things, organizing them with her usual precision. She slipped her laptop into her bag and glanced over the files on her desk, making a mental note to review later. Heading out into the evening air, she stopped by the upscale supermarket on her route home, wandering through the aisles with a methodical efficiency. She didn't need much—just a few basics and some ready-made items she could quickly heat up, nothing that required actual cooking.

Sam changed into workout clothes at her townhouse and headed to the small, pristine gym she'd set up in one of the spare rooms. It didn't matter how exhausting the day had been; thirty minutes on the treadmill was non-negotiable. Before setting the machine to a steady pace, she grabbed her earphones from the table nearby, slipping them in. She selected a playlist of upbeat rock from "Starlight Riot," a band whose music was perfect for keeping her motivated. The pounding drums and driving guitars set an energetic rhythm, giving her the boost she needed to clear her mind and push through each stride.

Once she got going, the hum of the treadmill and the music drowned out the day's thoughts, helping her decompress. Here, she could let the rhythm of her footsteps and the beat of the music pull her away from the clinical formality of her work and into a place where everything felt simpler.

After her workout, Sam headed straight to the bathroom, filled the tub with steaming water, and slipped in. The heat soothed her muscles and cleared her mind. This ritual was her sanctuary—a quiet, uninterrupted moment where she could let go of the day before diving back into work. Thirty minutes later, she emerged from the bath, feeling rejuvenated and ready to tackle her session notes.

Settling at her kitchen counter with a plate of frozen dinner and a handful of chips on the side, she opened her laptop and skimmed through the notes from her sessions. Her thoughts kept circling back to Colonel Jack O'Neill, and she found herself frowning at the screen, replaying snippets of their conversation in her mind. He was different from her typical patients, not just because of his military background but because she had seen several military personnel. He'd been curt, guarded—wary even. His resistance to therapy was almost palpable, and his deep-seated hostility toward the process created a wall she knew wouldn't easily come down.

Sam leaned back, absently picking at her chips. She was used to complex cases; in fact, she often thrived on them. But Jack O'Neill was a different kind of challenge. He carried an intensity that felt personal, a resolve that mirrored her own in ways that made this case oddly compelling. A lesser psychiatrist might be discouraged by his closed-off nature, but to her, it was an invitation to dig deeper, to uncover the man behind the defenses. She could feel the unresolved tension and sadness buried beneath his sarcasm and hostility, the pain she knew couldn't remain hidden forever.

Once her meal was finished, she put the dishes in the dishwasher and moved into her living room. Her townhouse was as meticulously designed as her office, minimalistic in decor, with clean lines, muted colors, and nothing that didn't serve a purpose. She turned on the high-definition television she rarely used, flipping through the channels until she landed on a program about fishing in Alaska. She leaned back, letting the gentle rhythm of the narration and the sweeping shots of Alaskan waters wash over her, its simplicity calming in contrast to the controlled structure of her life.

She found herself oddly captivated by the quiet beauty of the program, the icy blue rivers, and the fisherman casting his line against a backdrop of mountains. This glimpse of the wild was strangely comforting in a city as bustling as Washington, D.C., a reminder of a world beyond her structured routine. It was almost amusing, she thought, to imagine herself in a place like that, surrounded by untamed nature.

Sam didn't knowthat, across town, in a business hotel room with a view of the same city skyline, Colonel Jack O'Neill had landed on the same channel, staring at the same Alaskan landscapes. It was a coincidence, but one that seemed to echo a shared sense of restlessness they each carried.

Three days later, Jack stepped into Sam's office, the air thick with tension before he even closed the door. His shoulders were stiff, his jaw set, and his look at her betrayedirritation and impatience.

"Colonel O'Neill," she greeted, maintaining her calm as she gestured for him to sit.

"Just Jack, remember?" he muttered, the words carrying a sharp edge. He didn't wait for her to start, folding his arms tightly as he sat, a fortress of crossed arms and narrowed eyes.

Sam noted his posture but decided to try a softer approach this time.

"Jack, I want you to know that these sessions are a safe space," she began gently, leaning forward a little. "Whatever you say here, don't leave this room."

Jack scoffed, looking away.

"Right. Safe space," he echoed sarcastically, as if the phrase were somehow offensive. "Nothing safe about this to me, Doc. You've got me in here under orders, which is basically the opposite of 'safe.'"

Sam allowed herself a deep breath.

"I understand that this isn't easy for you. Therapy isn't always comfortable, but it can be helpful, especially if you trust the process."

He looked back at her, his eyes dark.

"Trust? That's a bit of a tall order."

She resisted the urge to meet his sarcasm with her own and chose a different path.

"Maybe we could start with something easier. Could you tell me a bit about your childhood?"

The change in his posture was immediate. His eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and something else—something darker. His arms tightened across his chest, and his lips drew into a thin line.

"No," he said flatly.

Sam held his gaze, trying to find a path through his resistance.

"I understand if it's difficult, Jack. But sometimes, understanding where we come from—"

"No, you don't understand," he interrupted, his voice low and hard. "We're not talking about my childhood, Doctor Carter. End of discussion."

The air felt tense enough to snap. Sam's mind whirred, processing the sharp reaction, and she decided to press forward, hoping to ease him into another area.

"Alright. How about we talk about your family? It's in your file that you're divorced."

He scoffed again, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her, and she could see a fresh wave of anger brewing beneath the surface.

"You want to know about my marriage? Why? You think that's relevant to whatever 'safe space' healing you're trying to push?"

Sam steadied herself.

"Yes, Jack. I think your relationships are important. They help shape usanddefine us—even if they're difficult. Especially if they're difficult."

For a moment, he was silent, his gaze fixed on some invisible point across the room. Then, with a clenched jaw, he muttered, "You want to hear about my marriage? Fine. It didn't work. I put my job firstandpaid for it. She didn't sign up to be second place to the military."

"And you're still angry about that," Sam observed gently.

He looked at her, and this time, there was no sarcasm—only raw anger, tightly controlled.

"Maybe I am," he replied, his voice dangerously calm. "But if you think sitting here talking about it will change anything, you're wrong."

"Sometimes, just acknowledging it can help," she replied. "There's no need to hide that frustration, Jack. It's okay to feel it."

"Oh, so now you're giving me permission to be angry?" he snapped, his voice rising, hands flexing as though he needed something to hit. "I've got a whole line of people doing that already, Doc. You're not exactly the first."

Sam felt the impact of his words, but she held steady.

"Jack, I know you don't want to be here. I get that. But the anger you carry—this hostility—doesn't come from nowhere. It's worth exploring."

"No," he said with bitter finality, standing abruptly. "No, Doc. This anger? It's a hell of a lot better than sitting here spilling my guts to someone who doesn't know the first thing about what I've been through. You sit in this polished office, with perfectly organized notes and a clean slate oflife, telling me I'm supposed to talk? I don't think so."

"Jack, wait—" she started, feeling the moment slipping beyond her control.

He glared down at her.

"No, I think we're done. This whole setup—it's not helping, and it sure as hell isn't a 'safe space' for me."

Before she could respond, he turned and stormed out, leaving her alone in the thick silence that followed. She felt the sting of his anger as if he'd struck her, each word hitting hard, exposing a raw truth she wasn't ready to face. Jack O'Neill didn't open up easily; he warned her. But the reality was sharper, more hostile than she'd anticipated. She wasn't just facing a man—she was facing a soldier, and not just any soldier, but one shaped by combat and hardship. Somewhere beneath those layers was the person he once was, buried deep within the walls he'd built. Reaching him would be no simple task, but she was determined to find that man hidden behind the soldier's armor.

Jack left the building with a fury that felt like heat radiating from him. He moved quickly, eyes forward, shutting out every thought that tried to creep in. He needed release—something to dull the edgeand drown out everything that stirred up inside him in that room.

He spotted a small, dimly lit pub around the corner. Perfect.

Once inside, he slipped onto a barstool, barely giving the bartender a nod before muttering, "Whiskey. Neat."

The first sip burned, but the warmth brought a numbing calm he hadn't felt in days. Jack stared at the glass, turning it slowly in his hands as his mind drifted. Memories started creeping in, shadows from his past he'd kept buried for so long. His childhood, his marriage, his career—all the pieces he didn't want to touch were pressing in on him now. And all because of her.

"Damn shrink," he cursed.

After a while, he ordered another, the familiar burn dulling the ache, if only temporarily.

As Sam left her office, she made a beeline for Martha's desk, her expression tight with determination. Martha looked up, a slight concern flickering in her eyes as she braced for the question she knew was coming.

"Did you see where Colonel O'Neill went after he left?" Sam asked, keeping her voice measured.

Martha nodded, her brows knitting.

"He stormed out, Doctor Carter. Didn't say a word—well, not to anyone here. He was muttering something to himselfandseemed pretty upset. Didn't even take the elevator. Took the stairs, all ten floors down."

Sam inhaled slowly, controlling her frustration.

"Alright, Martha. Please try calling him for me. If he picks up, pass the call straight to me."

Martha nodded and picked up the phone as Sam returned to her office. Closing the door, she took a moment to breathe. The session had been a disaster—there was no other word for it. Samantha Carter wasn't accustomed to professional disasters; in fact, she prided herself on handling even the most challenging cases. Her personal life, maybe, but her practice? That was different. And yet here she was, feeling unsteady and unsettled, the echoes of Jack's angry words still lingering in her mind.

Minutes passed, and she heard a soft knock on the door. She looked up to see Martha's apologetic expression as she entered.

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Martha said gently, "but it keeps going to voicemail. I left a message."

Sam nodded, fighting the urge to show her frustration.

"Thank you, Martha. I'll try him again later."

Alone once more, Sam sat back at her desk, pulling up the notes and sparse background information she had on Jack. The reality was that she didn't have much to work with at all. His file was filled with blanks, and she navigated in the dark without Jack's willingness to help fill them.

She scanned his basic information again, already familiar but somehow starker after today's session. He was born in Chicagoin1952. He had no siblings and no mention of his parents, dead or alive. Married Sara O'Neill. Together, they'd had a son, Charlie. She paused at that line, feeling the same pang of empathy she had the first time she read it. Charlie had shot himself with Jack's service weapon. He'd died on the way to the hospital. Then, the divorce.

Her gaze drifted over his military record: Air Force Academy graduate, service in the Gulf War. But the details were missing—no specifics of his missions, injuries, or commendations. And then his transfer to Cheyenne Mountain was wrapped in confidentiality so thoroughly that she could only infer the level of secrecy involved since his rank wasn't lower, quite the opposite. All Sam knew was that Jack O'Neill was a man with a history and a heavy one. And he wasn't interested in sharing any of it with her.

Realizing she needed more to go on if she would make any progress, she reached for her phone and dialed the number his commanding officer had given her. After a few rings, the line clicked.

"This is General Hammond."

"General Hammond, this is Dr. Samantha Carter," she introduced herself, keeping her tone professional. "I'm calling regarding Colonel O'Neill. I wanted to speak with you if you have a few minutes."

"Of course, Doctor," Hammond replied, his voice calm and steady. "What can I help you with?"

Sam took a measured breath.

"I understand Colonel O'Neill's background is largely classified, but I'm reaching out because he's resisting therapy, to say the least. Today's session was… difficult. I don't have enough information about his history to be effective in my approach. I was hoping you could share some details to help me connect with him. This isn't just for my benefit—it's for his. As it stands, he's not engaging in the process at all."

The line paused, and she could sense the weight of his response before he spoke.

"I understand your position, Doctor Carter," he said slowly, "but Colonel O'Neill's file is classified for a reason. I'm afraid there's very little I can disclose, even to his therapist."

Sam felt her frustration rising but kept her voice calm.

"General Hammond, I appreciate the need for confidentiality. But without some context, I can't reach him; without that connection, he's getting nothing from these sessions. He's angry and defensive, and I'm not sure how to help him without knowing the reasons behind that."

"Doctor, Jack O'Neill is… complicated," Hammond replied, his tone laced with caution. "The nature of his work and the things he's seen—let's just say that what he carries isn't easy to unpack, even with the right training. But he's also highly resistant to anyone prying into his personal life. He's dealt with trauma, yes, but he's handled it in his way for years."

Sam pressed on.

"I understand, but he's fighting this process with everything he has. I don't need every detail, but any personal information that might help me approach him differently could make all the difference. Maybe something about his interests or what helps him relax?"

Another pause. Then, with a slight sigh, Hammond replied, "Well, Jack does have a few personal interests, though he wouldn't admit they mean much. One of his hobbies is fishing. He has a cabin up in Minnesota, where he goes when he needs to escape. But as for specifics on his work, I'm afraid my hands are tied."

Sam nodded thoughtfully, her mind already working through how to use this information.

"Thank you, General Hammond. I appreciate anything you're able to tell me."

Hammond's voice softened slightly.

"Doctor, I don't envy your position. Our psychiatrist here, Dr. McKenzie, couldn't reach him, and he has a level of clearance that you don't. For this evaluation, it was determined that access wouldn't be essential. Jack isn't an easy man to get through to—but if anyone can help him, even with limited information, it's you. Good luck."

"Thank you, General. I'll do my best," she said, ending the call.

She set the phone down, her mind turning over the new information. Fishing. A cabin in Minnesota. It wasn't much, but it was a start. Sam couldn't help but wonder if that cabin was the only place Jack felt safe enough to let down his guard.

Jack stumbled back to his hotel room, barely managing to get the door closed before he leaned heavily against it, blinking at the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains. His head felt like a freight train was barreling through it. Shoving off his jacket, he tossed it vaguely toward a chair and went to the bathroom.

The hot water streaming over his face felt grounding, if only temporarily. But no amount of steam or soap could wash away the tension still coiled tight in his muscles. He gritted his teeth, resisting the thoughts clawing their way back in—his failed session, his anger, Carter's too-sharp blue eyes watching him like she saw everything. He clenched his fists, letting the water scald his skin.

He'd just reached for a towel when his phone rang from the main room. He ignored it, shoving open the mirrored cabinet to find painkillers. But just as he popped the cap, the phone started up again.

Grumbling, Jack snatched it off the nightstand, not even bothering to check the caller ID.

"What?" he growled, his voice rough.

There was a short pause before a familiar, calm voice replied, "Colonel O'Neill, this is Samantha Cart—"

He hung up before she could even finish, throwing the phone back onto the bed. Damn shrink was really pushing it, calling him at this hour. He couldn't even escape her outside those damned sessions.

Then, as he downed the painkillers dry, the phone started ringing again.

His patience was razor-thin as he snatched it up again.

"Leave me alone!" he barked.

"I will," Sam replied, unfazed, "if you answer me one question."

He grunted, passing a hand through his damp hair, biting back the automatic urge to end the call.

"What?"

"Do you like fishing, Colonel?"

Jack blinked, caught off guard by the question. "What?"

"Fishing," she repeated with a hint of playfulness, "you know, a little stick, a rod, and a line... you throw it in the water."

Jack ground his teeth.

"I know perfectly well what fishing is," he said, an edge of irritation returning to his voice.

"Oh, do you?" she replied, and he could hear the slight smile in her tone. "So, do you like it?"

"Why?" he shot back, suspicious.

He heard her take a measured breath, and her voice was softer, almost cautious when she spoke.

"Look, Jack, our sessions aren't going exactly… well. So I have an offer for you. Interested?"

Jack felt himself sober up, intrigued despite himself. He sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Keep talking."

Sam took a moment, clearly gathering her thoughts.

"I have a friend who owns a small condo on Colonial Beach. It's only about 65 miles from here. Do you want to go fishing, Colonel?"

There was a pause as he stared at the wall, genuinely stunned. Was she really asking him to go… fishing? He was almost sure he'd misheard her.

"Are you asking me… out?"

On the other end of the line, Sam let out a soft, flustered laugh, and though he couldn't see her, he sensed her blushing.

"Ah... no, Colonel," she replied quickly, regaining her composure. "That would be unprofessional—and unethical. I'm suggesting an alternative approach to our sessions."

Jack raised an eyebrow, intrigued and amused.

"You want to have our sessions… while we fish?"

"Yes," she replied, almost hesitantly, but confidence was underlying her tone. "One session like that, to see how it goes."

On the other side of town, Sam sat at her sleek kitchen island, phone still in hand, letting out the breath she'd been holding. She hadn't planned on this approach, and the proposal was far outside her usual comfort zone. Inviting a patient to something so personal, even under the guise of therapy, was unprecedented for her. But Colonel O'Neill was different. From that first session, she'd realized that if she wanted any breakthrough, she would need to adjust her methods.

He was stubborn and resistant, but the one thing that seemed to spark something in him was fishing, according to General Hammond. And while she wasn't particularly keen on fishing, she was committed to getting through to him. Her entire career had been based on challenging her patients to push past their defenses, and if Jack O'Neill needed a different tactic, she'd provide it.

She hoped, as she sipped her cooling coffee, that the open sky and quiet waters might coax him into something he couldn't access in the rigid structure of her office.

Jack considered her offer, and a rare smirk tugged at his lips.

"Sure. I can always throw you into the water if you bother me too much."

He could almost hear her smile through the phone.

"You can try."

He leaned back on the bed, his smirk widening.

"Is that a challenge, Doctor Carter?"

There was a pause, and then she cleared her throat.

"I'll have my assistant send over available dates so you can choose one. And then I'll pick you up, and we'll drive there. That part is non-negotiable," she added firmly.

Jack's eyebrows shot up, a hint of amusement glinting in his eyes.

"Oh, really?"

"I drive," she said matter-of-factly.

"Do you even know how to drive, Doc?" he teased, unable to help himself.

She chuckled softly, and he realized with mild surprise that she could sound… playful.

"You can let me know after our trip, Colonel. Have a good night," she said, hanging up before he could respond.

Jack stared at the phone, a strange mix of irritation and curiosity swirling. For the first time since this mandatory therapy nonsense had started, he felt a flicker of interest.

"Well, McKenzie never invited me to fish," he muttered aloud, his smirk lingering as he set the phone down.

When Martha called Jack the following day with the available dates, he didn't hesitate to choose Saturday. The thought of seeing Samantha Carter outside her pristine office, away from the polished mahogany and dim lighting, was an opportunity he wasn't about to pass up. In fact, he was dying of curiosity to see how the woman who wore sleek suits and expensive heels would manage a fishing trip. The mental image of her trying to balance on a dock in high heels brought a smirk to his face, and he vowed that if she dared show up like that, he'd toss her into the water himself.

But as the week wore on, Jack felt a growing sense of anticipation. It was a strange feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. The eagerness gnawed at him, and he found himself looking forward to this peculiar arrangement with a mix of curiosity and intrigue. His smirk widened when Martha mentioned that Dr. Carter would bring all the fishing gear. Sam Carter—psychiatric extraordinaire, who probably never held anything messier than an ink pen—was supposedly going to show up with rods and bait? That was something he'd gladly pay to see.

On Saturday morning, Jack dressed casually, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. The weather was bright and warm, and he grabbed his sunglasses before a message came through on his phone. He looked at the screen:

"I'm parked in front of your hotel. Sam Carter."

He grabbed his wallet and hotel cardand whistled as he headed out the door, feeling a mix of amusement and somethingsuspiciously like excitement.

When he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he stopped in his tracks. Waiting in front of the hotel was a sleek black Mercedes-Benz AMG GT Coupe—her car. It looked elegant and powerful, gleaming in the morning sun, and Sam was behind the wheel, her oversized sunglasses reflecting the skyline. She wore white jeans, a loose-fitting terracotta blouse that caught the breeze, and a pair of white sneakers. Her usual polished office attire was gone, replaced by something effortless, almost casual, and Jack felt a momentary pause, caught off guard. Her ponytail was gone, replaced by loose waves that cascaded down to her shoulder blades, framing her face with a soft elegance.

He muttered a quiet"Well, here we go" under his breath.

Jack strolled up to the passenger door, his eyes narrowing as he admired the car. It was fast, sleek, and not his style at all. But he could appreciate a fine machine when he saw one. Sliding into the passenger seat, he was immediately hit by her perfume's faint, clean scent, something soft and fresh, like citrus and cedar. He glanced over at her, surprised again to see her casual outfit. She looked relaxed, almost at ease—very unlike the clinical Dr. Carter he'd expected.

"Nice car," he said, closing the door.

She glanced over the edge of a smile on her lips.

"Thank you. Ready?"

He smirked, leaning back in the leather seat.

"Oh, I've been ready for this."

Without another word, Sam pulled out into the street, and Jack was quickly reminded that there was more to this woman than met the eye. She drove with an ease that was somehow both fast and controlled, handling each turn, each change of speed, with precision. She navigated the morning D.C. traffic confidently, her grip on the wheel steady, her gaze focused, and Jack felt a flicker of admiration he hadn't anticipated. She wasn't a cautious driver—no, she was skilled. The engine purred under her control, and as she merged onto the highway, he watched the cityscape melt away behind them.

For the first half-hour, neither of them spoke. He was strangely content to let the silence linger, watching the world blurthrough the tinted windows. Occasionally, he glanced at her, taking in how she focused on the road, utterly calm. He wondered how someone who drove like this could sit so still in her office, bound to the formality of it all. He noticed a large canvas tote bag in the back seat—presumably filled with whatever fishing gear she'd gathered, although the bag seemed too small.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of him.

"Didn't peg you as a… road warrior," he said, breaking the silence.

Sam chuckled, a soft sound that made him glance her way.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Colonel," she replied, her tone light but with an edge of challenge.

He smirked, shifting to face her more fully.

"Oh, I bet there is. And the name is Jack. But I'll tell you this—seeing you behind the wheel of this car, flying down the highway, wasn't exactly what I imagined."

She arched an eyebrow.

"What did you imagine, then? That I'd show up in a suit, with a chauffeur?"

"Wouldn't have been that shocking," he quipped. "I was betting on heels, actually."

She rolled her eyes behind the sunglasses.

"Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint, but heels don't really work on docks. Besides, it's not like I expect you to show up in full military gear, either."

"Touché," he said, smiling despite himself.

Another comfortable silence fell between them, the miles passing by as they left the city behind, and the landscape opened up to rolling fields and trees swaying in the summer breeze. Sam glanced over now and then, noticing the occasional grin that slipped across his face. Jack was different outside her office, too—more relaxed, less defensive. Even though his curiosity and suspicion lingered, there was an openness she hadn't seen before.

As they neared Colonial Beach, Jack couldn't help himself.

"So, you bring all the fishing gear?"

"I did," she replied, her tone matter-of-fact.

"And I'm supposed to believe you know how to use it?"

She flashed him a sidelong smile. "You'll find out soon enough."

He laughed, leaning back in his seat.

"Oh, I'm going to enjoy this. You've got bait and everything?"

"I read up on what I needed," she replied calmly. "And don't worry, Col—Jack, I can handle it."

They finally pulled into a gravel lot near a small, secluded dock on the beach. The scene was a stark contrast from the gleaming glass and polished surfaces of her office—here, the world was quiet and natural, the gentle waves lapping against the wooden posts of the dock. As she parked, Jack took in its peacefulness, something inside him relaxing despite himself.

He hopped out, watching as she reached into the back seat and pulled out the canvas tote. Then she opened the trunk, and true to her word, she'd come prepared, pulling out a couple of rods, bait, and a small cooler. He crossed his arms, grinning as he watched her organize everything, her expression determined as she gathered the supplies.

"So, Dr. Carter," he said, trying to hold back a chuckle, "think you're ready for this?"

She straightened, sunglasses still on, and gave him a steady look.

"I'm willing to try. Besides, I'm pretty sure I won't be the only one learning something today."

"Oh?" he said, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. "You think you're going to get me to spill my soul out here?"

Her smile was softandconfident.

"Maybe. But if not, at least you'll get some fish out of it."

He shook his head, chuckling. "You're something else, you know that?"

They walked out onto the dock, rods in hand, and as Sam set everything up, Jack watched her closely, noting how she approached this with the same precision she brought to her work. She was out of her element, no question about it, but she didn't seem uncomfortable—if anything, she looked almost… content.

Jack thought this might not be such a disaster as he cast his line into the water.