As Sam stepped out of her Georgetown townhouse, she straightened her tailored suit and smoothed her skirt, feeling ready for the day's sessions. She entered her garage, where her black Mercedes-Benz AMG GT Coupe gleamed under the professional lights she had installed, looking as pristine as she liked to keep it. But the second she opened the driver's door, a wave of putrid, fishy stench assaulted her, making her recoil.
"Oh, God…" she muttered, pinching her nose as she realized the cause.
The fish Jack had stored in her trunk after their recent trip—when he'd rushed her to the hospital for a sunstroke and forgotten to remove them. Clearly, she hadn't thought to check, and now her car smelled like a rotting seafood buffet.
"Perfect. Just perfect," she muttered through gritted teeth. Sam could almost picture Jack's apologetic look, though she knew he'd probably laugh at the situation. She, however, couldn't quite find the humor in it.
Resigned, she took a deep breath (of clean air outside the car), grabbed her phone, and dialed Martha, who fortunately knew better than to question unusual requests from Dr. Carter.
"Hey, it's Sam. I'm running late," she said briskly, "and I'll need a car service for the rest of the week—yes, immediately. Also, get a professional detailing service to handle… an unexpected issue with my car. Trust me, you don't want the specifics."
With the call handled, Sam locked the car and walked away without a backward glance, determined to let the experts handle the situation. She was too practical to waste time on a smelly mess when she could delegate it. Besides, the last thing she needed was the lingering stench of fish clinging to her suit when she met her patients.
With the car issue solved, Sam settled back into the quiet calm of the session room, drawing a deep breath as she reviewed her notes for the day's session with Jack. The fishing trip left her with a lingering feeling of satisfaction and an unsettling sense that she'd stepped beyond the professional lines she had so carefully constructed. This tension gnawed at her, urging her to restore her usual boundaries.
Jack walked into the room, his stride relaxed. There was a slight smile on his face, and he looked at her expectantly, like they were picking up where they'd left off at the dock. He gave her a nod.
"Morning, Doc."
"Good morning, Colonel O'Neill," she replied, her voice meticulously professional, her tone devoid of the familiarity he was expecting.
Jack's brows knitted for a split second. His gaze lingered on her, and the subtle lines around his eyes softened, his expression curious. But when Sam's focus remained trained on her notes, his smile faded. She looked up finally, her eyes cool and distant.
"So, Colonel," she began, her voice even and impersonal, "let's continue from our last structured session."
He blinked, his brow knitting.
"Structured session? I thought we had something good going with a little… flexibility."
Ignoring his remark, Sam glanced at her list of questions.
"I'd like to start introducing a theme into our sessions," Sam began, her voice smooth and measured, with none of the warmth or informality that had surfaced during their recent outing. Her posture was impeccable, her back straight, her hands loosely clasped as she kept her gaze fixed on him with cool attentiveness. "This will help you confront aspects of your past, and I'll guide you through the process—opening up or reacting emotionally to what comes up." She paused, her tone unwavering, almost clinical. "Let's start with your work. Specifically, your team. Do you feel well-supported by your colleagues?"
Jack shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his jaw tightening as he processed her words. This formality from her felt like a barrier, a stark shift from the openness he'd glimpsed just days before. He crossed his arms and met her gaze with suspicion and reluctance.
"Well… sure," he replied, his voice tinged with confusion as he tried to read her.
"Good," she replied, nodding briskly. She leaned back slightly, maintaining a posture that was precise and distant. Her expression stayed neutral, and she moved on to the next question with unbroken poise.
"When things go wrong on a mission, do you feel comfortable relying on your team for support afterward?"
Sam kept her gaze steady, tilting her head slightly as she asked the question. Her hands rested calmly on her lap, and her face remained impassive, giving away none of her own thoughts.
Jack let out a sharp breath, his gaze hardening as he looked away from her.
"It's not that simple. Everyone has their own… ways of dealing with things. We handle it; we move on."
She nodded, noting his discomfort without a shift in her tone. "And for you, what does that look like? Moving on?"
His voice tightened, a hint of irritation creeping in. "Doing my job. What else?"
Jack looked at her, his confusion growing. Sam kept her gaze on her notes, writing silently as though the atmosphere hadn't changed between them.
"Doc," Jack said, his voice lower, wary. "Is this some kind of test? Because I feel like I just walked into another dimension."
She stopped writing, letting the silence stretch before lifting her gaze and slowly taking her glasses.
"This is just…me returning to my professional role, Colonel," she replied, her voice steady but softer than before. "I realize that taking you fishing may have been… unprofessional. And I apologize for it. From now on, this will remain a doctor-patient relationship as it should have been. Always," she added, putting her glasses back on.
A pause filled the room, her words lingering between them as Jack tried to process this abrupt turn. He studied her face, searching for something he couldn't quite name. She waited, silent and expectant, her guarded expression unchanged. It was as though he were sitting in front of a stranger.
He leaned back, his arms folded across his chest, his face unreadable as he finally spoke.
"Right."
But inside, his thoughts churned in disbelief and frustration, a growing distance between them that felt almost palpable. He said nothing more, his silence louder than words as he observed Sam, wondering if they'd both been part of the same fishing trip.
Sam kept her gaze steady, bracing herself for what she knew was coming as Jack settled stiffly into the chair across from her. His expression was a perfect mask of neutrality, only his tightly crossed arms betraying his irritation. She cleared her throat, picked up her pen with steady fingers, and took a slow breath.
"How often do you feel you carry more weight than they do?"
Sam asked the question without a hint of judgment, her voice as steady as her gaze. She kept her posture neutral, observing his reaction with careful, clinical detachment.
Jack clenched his jaw, his gaze flickering away from her. "I'm the ranking officer; it comes with the territory."
She nodded slowly, her expression revealing no reaction. "True. But does it ever feel… isolating?"
He hesitated, his tone dropping. "Maybe. Sometimes."
"If something happened to you in the field, do you trust your team to step in without hesitation?"
Sam kept her posture upright, taking notes as she studied him. Her expression remained composed, and her gaze remainedunflinching as she awaited his answer.
"Of course. They're trained for it."
She nodded again, her tone cool. "And you trust them with your life. That's… a big statement, isn't it?"
Jack shrugged, his expression guarded. "It's just part of the job. Trust is… necessary."
"When it comes to sharing struggles or concerns, do you think your team would be open with you?"
Sam's voice remained carefully modulated, her expression steady as she leaned forward slightly, watching him without breaking eye contact.
Jack's fists clenched, his face betraying his tension. "It's not exactly an office picnic. They have their limits."
"And yours?"
He gave a wry, almost bitter smile. "My limits don't really matter. As long as the job gets done."
"What emotions come up for you when a mission doesn't go as planned?"
She kept her face impassive, her tone professional as she asked, showing no sign of how deeply she might empathize or what she knew of the weight of his work.
His expression darkened, and he let out a short, humorless laugh. "Emotions? Do you want me to talk about emotions?"
Sam just nodded and waited.
Jack swallowed as he clenched his jaw. "Frustration. Sometimes anger. Regret… when it's bad enough."
She observed him closely, her gaze unyielding. He was being more cooperative than she anticipated, which was a surprise.
"And how do you process that? Where does that anger go?"
He shifted in his seat, his voice lowering. "Back into the job. Always."
"If you're ever uncertain, do you feel you have anyone to confide in, to get perspective on what's weighing you down?"
Sam kept her eyes focused on him, her face perfectly still, holding herself back from showing warmth or reassurance. She seemedentirely closed off at that moment, with no hint of personal investment.
He scoffed lightly, trying to play it off. "I'm a soldier, Doc. There's not much time for that. Too many risks to consider."
"Doesn't that get exhausting? Keeping it all contained?"
His jaw tightened, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. "It's not about what I feel. It's about what has to be done."
She expected resistance, yet a small part of her faltered as she met his gaze, a storm of emotions lurking beneath his apparent honest answers. Pushing down the prick of regret, Sam shifted her focus to the list of structured questions, determined to reestablish her professional boundaries.
"Have you felt hopeless or helpless being away from your team?"
His eyes narrowed as though he knew exactly what she was doing.
"No," he replied again, his tone as controlled as hers.
There was a chill in his voice she hadn't heard before, and it twisted something in her chest. But she had chosen this path, and if it meant drawing these lines through monosyllables and curt replies, then so be it. Sam continued, her voice just as cool.
"And your appetite—any changes there?"
He tilted his head slightly, giving her an almost mocking look. "No."
The silence followed was thick with unspoken tension, each answer feeling more like a jab than a response. They circled each other like opponents in a ring, each word a calculated move, and Sam could feel the heat of it simmering between them, though she willed herself to stay detached. She could not let him see that she'd been affected and had forgotten her role in a moment of weakness.
"Colonel," she began again, her voice steady but cool, "I understand this may not be ideal for you, but I need your cooperation if this will work. You've given me some insight about your team dynamics and how you rely on them, but I also need you to try to be a bit more open with your answers."
Jack's eyes remained impassive, his tone almost mocking as he replied, "Sure, Doc. Whatever you need."
The sarcasm in his voice grated on her, but she pressed on. She had to reassert her position. If that meant more sessions of silent resistance and verbal duels, then that was the price she would pay. She took a deep breath, setting aside her notes, and looked him in the eye.
"If this is difficult for you, I understand," she said, a hint of softness slipping through, but she quickly suppressed it. "But I must ensure you're well enough to return to active duty."
He looked at her, and she could see the muscles in his jaw tense. She held her ground, waiting as he breathed, his expression as blank and unreadable as hers.
The session dragged on, and each question met with a short answer, each answer more clipped than the last. She felt the tension in the room like a tangible weight pressing down on them both, but she refused to falter. This distance was necessary. Professional. Yet the coldness in his eyes as he met her gaze was something she hadn't anticipated. Finally, the clock signaled the end of the session.
"Alright," she said, closing her notebook with a quiet finality. "We'll pick up here next time."
Jack stood, his movements deliberate, and she felt the full force of his gaze as he looked down at her, his expression a blank slate.
"One question, Doctor."
She swallowed, keeping her expression neutral. "Go ahead."
His tone was as cold as hers as he asked, "How long do you think this… thing will take? To get me cleared?"
Sam took a steadying breath.
"Colonel, we've only just begun," Sam said, her tone cool and steady. "Today, we focused on your team, but there are many other areas we need to address in upcoming sessions. The answers you provide will shape the progress we make. How long this takes is entirely up to you."
He passed a hand over his jaw, his eyes sharp and assessing.
"So, if I start talking—telling you what you want to hear—you'll clear me? You'll tell Hammond I'm good to go?"
She knew this game. She'd seen it in her other patients—the ones who thought they could beat the system, give her just enough of what she needed to rubber-stamp them back to duty. It never worked. Sam was too good at her job for that. But something about how he looked at her made her pulse quicken, and for a moment, she wasn't sure if she had met her match.
"If you're honest and sincere in your efforts to get better, yes," she replied, keeping her tone steady.
He nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving hers.
"Right." The single word carried an edge that sent a shiver down her spine.
Without another word, he turned and left her office, the door closing with a sharp, final click. Sam closed her eyes as his footsteps faded, feeling the moment's weight settle over her. She knew exactly what he was thinking—that he could tell her whatever she wanted to hear and fool her, just as he had likely done with her colleague, McKenzie. But with Jack O'Neill, it was different. There was a sharpness to his resolve, a skill at masking the truth that went beyond anything she'd encountered. She had a sinking feeling that he just might be able to fool her if he tried hard enough.
Today, he had answered almost as ifto test her.
Sighing, she leaned back in her chair, the tension of the session finally crashing over her. She had been careless and had let herself forget, for even a moment, the importance of her role. And now, a patient was suffering because of her—a patient who was too close, too compelling. She had made a mistake, and the price of it was this growing distance, this coldness, that settled like a wall between them. Sam swallowed, steadying herself. She could not let this happen again. She was the doctor, and he was just a patient. Another patient like so many she had.
Jack's mind was a storm as he strode down the sidewalk, the crisp air of the city doing little to clear his frustration. That session had blindsided him, catching him off guard in ways he hadn't expected. Yesterday, he'd actually felt like they were getting somewhere—like he could lower his guard just a little, maybe even trust her with some of the things he'd locked up tight for years. He thought he could tell her things he hadn't shared with anyone. But today, she'd walked in, locked herself up in her "bitch posh doctor mode," and gone colder than he'd ever seen. It was like she was another person entirely.
What the hell was that all about?
He ground his teeth, keeping his pace brisk as he approached a small park he'd spotted near her office. There, he could walk, think, and maybe clear his head of this irritation gnawing at him.
He knew how to deal with people who held power over him; it was practically second nature. But when it came to Carter, it was different. He'd expected just another shrink when he'd first stepped into her polished office. He'd met a thousand like her—detached, clinical, too busy dissecting his every word actually to hear what he was saying. But Samantha Carter was something else. In those fleeting moments outside the office, back at the fishing dock, and later at her house, she'd shown him glimpses of something real, something almost… genuine. And for the first time in years, he'd let himself hope that maybe someone might actually see him, not the soldier or the CO, but the man he had been before the years of death and loss. But today, she reminded him he was just another assignment on her calendar.
He sank onto a park bench, staring at the flowers and trees, letting the morning quiet wash over him. It wasn't long before he realized that while Carter's frigid stance had infuriated him, it had also provided something he could use. She'd given him the key to getting the hell out of this place, back to where he belonged. All he had to do was cooperate.
Be honest. Be sincere.
He nearly laughed. Sure, he'd been "honest" plenty of times for McKenzie, telling him just enough to get the damn man off his back. After all, Jack knew exactly what to say, what they wanted to hear. And Carter? Well, he could do the same with her. She might be sharper than McKenzie, maybe even a little more insightful, but he'd outmaneuvered some of the best minds in the world and galaxy. All he had to do was play along, say what she needed to hear, get his clearance, and get the hell back to work.
Because that's where he needed to be.
Jack leaned back against the bench, his gaze wandering to a few people strolling along the path, oblivious to the inner turmoil coursing through him. He momentarily thought about the rest of SG-1, wondering what they were doing without him. Daniel was probably elbow-deep in some ancient artifact or trying to translate a language that hadn't been spoken in millennia—Teal'c, quiet but steady, keeping everyone on track. And Kawalsky was likely working double-time to keep everything running smoothly. He needed to get back to them. They were his team and his people, and he felt he was failing them every day he spent away.
But getting back would mean getting that seal of clearance, and if playing Carter's game was what it took, then fine. He could play along. She'd made it clear: tell her what she needed, and she'd put him back in action. That icy expression she'd given him, which said she didn't trust him to be anything more than another patient, had sealed it for him. So he would sit through her sessions, spill out "truths" like candy at Halloween, and then get his ass back to Colorado Springs.
He let out a long breath, the irritation fading as he settled into this decision, feeling a rare calm. He'd let himself get dragged off guard today, but no more. This was a mission now, and he'd handle it just like any other. He would tell her what she wanted to hear, let her believe she'd dug into his psyche, and get out of there.
In the meantime, he wasn't about to waste the day. The morning sun was bright, filtering through the leaves, and the cool breeze was pleasant against his skin. He sat back, stretching his legs out and enjoying the stillness. He could use it. It would be full speed ahead once he was back in Colorado Springs.
As the day wore on, he strolled back to his hotel, letting the calm of the park settle the last of his irritation. When he returned to his room, he was ready to let off some steam. He changed into workout clothes and hit the hotel gym with a renewed focus, his mind already plotting how he'd get through the next few weeks. His body moved through the routine on autopilot, the weights heavy in his hands, the treadmill humming beneath his feet as he pushed himself harder and harder, letting the burn of exertion drown out any stray thoughts of that last session, of her icy tone, or the way her sharp gaze had left him feeling raw and exposed.
He'd walk back into her office tomorrow, the same guarded soldier she expected to see, and tell her what she needed. He would make her believe she'd won, get his damn clearance, and finally put this whole D.C. ordeal behind him. The weight lifted with each set, and by the time he left the gym, he felt lighter, his course set. He was a soldier on a mission, and nothing—not Carter, her questions, or even his doubts—would stop him now.
Jack decided to try something different after his intense workout and a quick shower. He changed into jeans and a casual shirt, planning to hit the bookstore he'd passed a few times near his hotel. The idea was equal parts curiosity and humor. Psychiatry for Dummies, or something along those lines, was probably wishful thinking, but with Carter's latest shift to iron-walled professionalism, he figured any help was a bonus.
He was scanning the store's Health section when a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned slightly, and there she was—Dr. Samantha Carter, herself. She was kneeling near a lower shelf in the science and medicine section, her black blazer stretching slightly as she leaned down, a dark pencil skirt hugging her legs, and, of course, those heels—the very same that had made him wonder more than once how she ever walked in them, much less stood for long hours in them at work.
He quickly shoved aside the image that had flashed through his mind more than once—her in that black nightgown with those heels.
Shit, don't go there, Jack.
A grin spread across his face as he watched her, too absorbed in the pages of whatever book she was reading to notice him. For a second, he felt like a teenager again, hiding and peeking from around a corner, watching her oblivious to the world. But then an idea took shape, and Jack decided to have a little fun with her. She had taken her sweet time pushing him to the limits at her office; now it was his turn.
Clearing his throat, he strode over and, without preamble, leaned in close enough that she'd be sure to hear, dropping his voice to a low, teasing tone.
"So…researching ways to deal with difficult patients, are we?"
Sam froze mid-page, her fingers clutching the book. Then, in a move that amused and surprised him, she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes widening as she saw him standing there, a little too close for comfort.
"Colonel!" she exclaimed, struggling to mask her surprise. She straightened quickly, though the tight skirt and heels made it less than graceful. She wobbled slightly, a faint pink tinge coloring her cheeks as she hurriedly stepped back, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear from her otherwise composed ponytail.
"Jack," he corrected with a lazy grin, leaning against the shelf confidently. "We're not at work, Doc. No need for formalities."
She closed the book she was holding, its spine worn with medical jargon that seemed intimidating at first glance. It was titled Neurological Impacts of Trauma and Treatmentandcontained figures.
"Right," she said, visibly trying to compose herself. "Jack." Her voice was formal, an apparent effort to reassert the professional distance she'd so carefully reinstated.
His grin widened.
"So, reading up on trauma…interesting."
She lifted her chin, trying to steady her composure, but he could tell he'd caught her completely off guard.
"Yes, well…" she hesitated, eyes flicking to the book and back, "…I was looking for additional resources to use in a session. Trauma is…a nuanced subject," she said, her tone as level as she could manage.
Jack raised an eyebrow, sensing a hint of defensiveness in her tone.
"Researching for one of your problem patients?" He knew he was pushing, but he couldn't resist.
She set her jaw, and he could see the flicker of irritation she was trying to hide.
"Trauma is not a 'problem,' Colonel. It's a significant area of study."
"Yeah," he replied, crossing his arms, "so is psychiatry. I was thinking maybe I'd pick up a book myself." He paused, giving her a sidelong glance. "You know, 'Psychiatry for Dummies' or something. Got any recommendations?"
Her lips parted slightly, the faint pink in her cheeks deepening as she looked at him, momentarily speechless. It was almost too good to be true—Jack O'Neill asking for a book on psychiatry? Her disbelief was palpable.
"Well, there's… I mean, basic texts on psychiatry," she stammered, still recovering. "But 'for dummies'?"
He smirked, the glint in his eye telling her he was far from serious yet genuinely intrigued by her reaction.
"Sure. Do you have anything for stubborn soldiers? Or how about 'Shrink to Fit'? I could use some advice on how to 'fit' into these sessions better."
Her mouth quirked slightly, but she pressed her lips together, a faint smile threatening to break her stoic facade.
"Some of those titles might be a bit… unconventional. But," she added, trying to keep her tone neutral, "if you're genuinely interested, I could recommend something a little less… novelty-focused."
Jack leaned closer, his gaze playful, but his tone softened.
"Maybe I'll hold off on the 'Psychiatry for Dummies,' then. Can't be giving you too much help with these sessions."
A flicker of surprise crossed her face, and her hand dropped to her side, still holding the book as she looked up at him.
"You… want to be more difficult?"
"Not difficult, Doc. Just… on my terms." His voice was quieter now, his expression shifting slightly, a bit more serious, though the playful spark still lingered. "I figured you could use a challenge."
She let out a soft breath, her eyes narrowing just slightly as she held his gaze.
"Well," she replied, "I've had my fair share of challenges."
Jack let the words linger between them, feeling the subtle tension in her tone.
"Fair enough, Doc. But so that you know, I was planning on being cooperative." His voice dropped to a murmur. "I think you're underestimating me."
A slight frown creased her forehead, and she stepped back, catching herself before she could react too obviously. She hadn't expected him to disarm her so quickly. Here they were, in a random bookstore, yet he still managed to slip under her defenses with one sentence. She cleared her throat, the professionalism she'd so carefully constructed returning to her like a shield.
"Well, Colonel—Jack," she corrected, "maybe I am." Her tone was firm but soft, and her fingers lightly drummed against the spine of her book.
He chuckled, unable to resist the amusement in his voice.
"Maybe we both are."
Before she could respond, he took a step back and gave her a casual salute.
"Anyway, Doc, I won't keep you. Enjoy your… light reading." He gestured to the thick medical text in her hands, eyebrow raised.
Her lips twitched, a faint, almost reluctant smile breaking through.
"You too, Colonel. I hope you find your 'for dummies' book." She met his gaze, an unspoken challenge passing between them as they stood in the quiet aisle.
Jack nodded, letting her have the last word. He turned, casually strolling down the aisle, but he couldn't resist glancing over his shoulder to see her still watching him, her expression unreadable but a small smile lingering on her lips. As he left the bookstore, he realized the encounter had left him more unsettled than he'd admit.
Sam returned home that evening, still feeling the aftershocks of her unexpected encounter with Jack at the bookstore. She'd gone there to find a resource on trauma responses in high-stress individuals but instead had ended up locking horns—however briefly—with her most frustrating patient. Just when she thought she'd finally established boundaries, Jack managed to sneak under them, disarming her with that casual charm and way of seeing right through her defenses. For all the professionalism she tried to maintain, he could undo it with a single glance or one of his deliberately mischievous grins.
She sighed, tossing her keys onto the entryway table as she started sifting through the day's mail. The usual bills and medical journals were there. Still, at the bottom of the stack, her fingers froze on a familiar envelope: heavy, cream-colored, embossed with the unmistakable emblem of St. Elizabeths Hospital.
The Annual Reception of the Psychiatric Wing.
Every year, without fail, the invitation arrived. And she had thrown it straight into the trash every year since her time there. The memories of her days at St. Elizabeths were some she'd rather leave untouched, much like her relationship with Dr. Jonas Hanson.
The reception was one of the most sought-after events in the medical community, an evening of elaborate displays, media coverage, and casual networking meant to showcase the best in psychiatric medicine. To her, it was everything she'd grown to hate about the profession's social side: a thinly veiled showcase of prestige and ego and an opportunity for old colleagues to compare titles, publications, and promotions. Yet once, long ago, she'd been part of that world. She'd even attended one of these receptions, her arm linked with Jonas Hanson's, both fresh out of their internships and proud of the early accomplishments they'd worked so hard to achieve.
She held the invitation in her hands, memories flooding with unsettling clarity. Jonas had been everything she thought she wanted back then: intelligent, ambitious, with the same clinical drive she had. They'd clicked instantly, both in work and outside of it, and for a while, it seemed like they were building something solid.
But underneath his charming exterior, Jonas was… possessive. That strong will she'd initially admired quickly turned into an intense jealousy that bordered on obsession. Every patient interaction, every innocent conversation with a colleague, had led to interrogations from him, questions dripping with suspicion. He had an unpredictable temper, and as his possessiveness grew, so did his anger. The more their relationship progressed, the tighter his grip became, and she found herself pulled into the exhausting cycle of trying to keep his temper at bay, all while managing the demanding responsibilities of her position at St. Elizabeths.
The night of the reception had been the beginning of the end. Sam had been invited to join a prestigious research project led by a well-known psychiatrist on staff. When the doctor publicly offered her the position, Jonas had pulled her aside, his voice tense with barely restrained anger. He accused her of flirting with the doctor to secure the spot, his words bitter and accusatory, echoing in the quiet corner they'd found.
She remembered standing there in shock, feeling a mix of hurt and anger, realizing just how toxic things had become between them. She could still see the anger in his eyes, the way he'd clenched his fists at his sides as if barely able to restrain himself. The argument had escalated quickly, and before she knew it, other colleagues had taken notice. A scene erupted, and Sam felt the burning humiliation of her peers' stares as Jonas stormed out, leaving her to deal with the fallout alone.
That night had marked the beginning of the end for them, a painful breakup that had left her shaken and guarded. Jonas refused to accept her decision, appearing at her office, repeatedly calling, sending messages filled with desperate apologies, and attempting to rekindle things. She'd had to file a formal complaint to keep him at a distance, and the incident had entirely changed her view of relationships in the field. Since then, she'd distanced herself from all of it, the socializing, the receptions—anything that brought her too close to the world of medical politics and entanglements she had no interest in reviving.
Sam looked down at the invitation again, her fingers tense against the thick paper. She was long past those days, past the person who would have clung to Jonas out of a misguided belief in their shared ambition. Tossing the invitation into the trash, she exhaled slowly, her hands lingering on the countertop as she let the memories drift away.
But the encounter with Jack at the bookstore echoed in her mind. She realized that some part of her hadn't been prepared for the ease with which he'd reached out to her, caught her off guard, and looked at her with something closer to understanding than judgment. And while she hated admitting it, the spark of familiarity in his expression unsettled her in ways she didn't want to dwell on.
Sam turned off the kitchen lights with a quiet sigh and retreated to her room, hoping a good night's sleep would clear her mind. She desperately needed clarity in her life right now.