As Jack stepped out of her office, he couldn't shake the look on Sam's face as he'd leveled that threat—the shock, the fear, the confusion. It had been real, raw, and he knew he'd succeeded in putting a wall between them. He'd wanted her to understand the gravity of what she was playing with, that this wasn't some case study or textbook scenario where patients eventually healed and moved on. No, this was life-or-death—if she couldn't take the heat, she needed to back off before it was too late.

But something in him twisted with regret as he walked down the hallway, the threat replaying in his mind. It hadn't been an empty one, of course—there were real consequences if she kept digging, security protocols that demanded strict secrecy. He hadn't even lied; they'd throw her in a cell and leave her there if she breached the NDA again. But as he thought back on his tone, his icy stare, he knew he could have softened it. He could have warned her instead of coming down on her like a hammer.

But I didn't want to be soft, he told himself. I wanted her to be afraid.

He wanted her to understand what she was dealing with—not just aliens and strange worlds, but a level of horror that no amount of sharing or counseling would ever fix. It was easy for her to push him for details, to dig deep and try to unlock his thoughts. But she didn't know. She didn't know what it felt like to have Jaffa aiming staff weapons at you, to be helplessly bound, tortured under the cruel hand of a Goa'uld. And she couldn't understand the torture of being revived over and over by a damn sarcophagus, waking up to pain, the twisted pleasure in his captor's eyes as he was brought back just to be killed again.

How could he tell her that? How could he let her into the darkest parts of his mind, parts he didn't even want to visit? Share his thoughts? He barely wanted to remember them himself.

But a treacherous, selfish part of himwanted her to know. That part of him wished for someone else to bear the weight of it, to understand that this wasn't just about trauma—it was about carrying the kind of burden that crushed you from the inside. He kept these thoughts hidden even with his team, the few he trusted more than his own life. They were things he'd buried for so long, but they were starting to leak through to poison everything he tried to contain. This last mission had been the breaking point.

His team had been capturedandtortured systematically. As the team leader, he'd taken the brunt of it—hours of it, days of it, that blurred into hell. Pain and death became meaningless cycles as his body was broken and revived, the Goa'uld's twisted laughter the soundtrack to his suffering. Only the intervention of SG-3 and SG-7 had saved them, but even two weeks in the infirmary hadn't undone the damage. He could still feel the effects of the sarcophagus pulsing through his veins, leaving him hollow and shattered.

Their trusted medical officer, Dr. Janet Fraiser,had been gentle but firm when she told him he wasn't fit for duty yet. And he'd been able to fool McKenzie—usually. The mental health evaluations had become a game for him, one he played with ease, slipping through the system, hiding what he needed to. But this time… he'd been too far gone. McKenzie had seen through him, and Hammond, to his frustration, had intervened, sending him off to D.C. to see a specialist who wouldn't buy into his usual act.

Dr. Sam Carter. More accurately, Dr. Samantha Carter,who, at this moment, was flying out of her garage at breakneck speed in that sleek Mercedes, her face still pale and shaken from his warning.

Jack moved quickly, getting into the black government car waiting for him and ordering the driver to follow her. The driver gave him a curious look but nodded, speeding to keep up with her as she tore down the street, each turn sharper than the last, her headlights cutting through the early evening as she seemed to fly through the city.

He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowed as he watched her car up ahead. Part of him felt a pang of guilt. He could only imagine what was going through her mind right now, the frustration and shock after having that wall slammed down between them. She didn't know that this world, his world, was a place of horror as much as heroics. Every day, they went through Stargate, putting their lives, sanity, and souls on the line. And she didn't know, couldn't know, the faces of those who hadn't made it back, of the teammates, friends, who'd been lost to the mission. It wasn't the kind of burden you could share in a therapy session. It wasn't something that talking would fix.

But the treacherous thought crept in again. What would it feel like, he wondered, to finally open up? To let her know precisely what he'd seenand endured. To finally let someone in, someone who could help him sort through the demons he kept locked away. It was maddening, this tug-of-war between the need to protect her from the horror of it all and the need to find some release from the weight that threatened to crush him.

As they drove in tense silence, his mind spiraled between anger, guilt, and the hollow feeling that had gnawed at him since the last mission. The car in front of them slowed as Sam pulled off onto a road that led away from the city, heading toward an open stretch of highway. Jack sat back, his hand drumming restlessly against his leg as he watched her speed away. She was running—he knew that look, that need to escape. And he'd given her every reason to bolt, hadn't he?

With a frustrated sigh, he leaned forward, addressing the driver.

"Keep following her. Give her space, but don't lose her."

The driver glanced at him again, eyebrows raised, but nodded. They followed her in silence, Jack's eyes locked on the distant red glow of her taillights as she disappeared further and further down the highway.

With Sam's black Mercedes-Benz slicing through the night, the quiet hum of the engine was a fitting background to her escape from D.C. She felt the tension easing as she sped away, the city lights fading in her rearview mirror. But, as the miles wore on, the low fuel indicator blinked to life, a small, irritating reminder that she couldn't run forever—not tonight, at least.

She pushed the car further, eventually pulling into the quiet parking lot of a modest roadside motel in the middle of nowhere. The neon lights flickered, casting an eerie glow over the place. Reluctantly, she parked, feeling frustration simmer beneath her exhaustion. As she walked into the lobby, ready to check in, she saw a familiar figure getting out of a car—a tall man with a casual stance, unmistakably Colonel Jack O'Neill.

Her eyes narrowed, and she crossed the lobby toward him.

"Jack? Are you stalking me now?"

Jack turned to face her, trying to appear unfazed.

"Funny, I didn't realize you owned all the roads out here."

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

"It's not a coincidence that you're here, so don't play dumb. Are you following me?"

Jack's patience finally snapped.

"Look, I didn't sign up to be dragged around like a dog on a leash either, Sam. But here we are."

Their voices had risen, drawing attention from the nearby guests. Jack gave her a pointed look. "Let's not do this here."

Before she could protest, he gently took her by the arm and guided her down the hallway. She pulled back slightly but still followed, the tension between them growing heavier with each step. Crossing her arms tightly over her chest, she kept her eyes fixed anywhere but on him, while he searched for the room's door number.

Once in the room, Sam immediately retreated to the balcony, turning her back on him as she fought to steady her breath. Her hands clenched the railing, and she stared out into the night, her jaw tight.

Jack's voice was softer behind her.

"Sam…"

She cut him off, her voice laced with barely contained frustration.

"Okay, I get it…I shouldn't have done those online searches. It was stupid and reckless, but I was a bit overwhelmed with…" Her voice faltered. "With what I had been told. It won't happen again, so there's no need to follow me", she said.

A moment of silence passed before Jack spoke, his voice gentler.

"Look…I came too heavy on you. I'm sorry."

She turned her head slightly, still facing away, the sting of tears in her eyes. She shook her head, willing herself to maintain her composure, even now.

After a pause, Jack took a step closer.

"A piece of advice from someone who had been dealing with this for many years. If you let it keep eating at you, it'll break you, Sam. But not because you're weak. Because you're human."

Sam's shoulders rose and fell with her heavy breathing. As she stood on the balcony, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the dark horizon. Her fingers gripped the railing as she fought to suppress the tumultuous emotions Jack had stirred up. The vulnerability she'd shown, that momentary crack in her armor, felt foreign and unwelcome. Steeling herself, she took a deep breath, gathering her calm like a shroud before turning to face him.

Her voice was steady, her expression resolute.

"Colonel, I don't need your advice on how to handle my emotions. I am the psychiatrist, not you. So kindly save the motivational speeches for someone else."

Jack's lips parted as if he might argue, but she didn't give him the chance.

"And, in case you've forgotten, this is my room. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me get some rest."

He seemed to hesitate momentarily, his gaze searching hers, but Sam held firm. Finally, he passed a hand through his hair, resigned. With a slight nod, he turned and slipped quietly from the room, leaving her alone in the silence.

The hours crawled by, and while her exterior had remained calm, Sam's mind whirred with relentless thoughts that refused to let her sleep. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of her frustration, exhaustion, and something else—something unresolved—pressing down on her. She knew, deep down, that Jack had only been trying to help, yet the realization infuriated her further. Her job was to get him back on track, not vice versa.

Across the hall, Jack lay on his bed, hands clasped behind his head, staring into the darkness. Sam's fierce independenceand resistance to showing vulnerability all felt so achingly familiar. And yet, every barrier she put up only made him more determined to reach through. He wanted to understand her, help her, but he'd managed to touch a nerve. He wasn't sure whether he should have pushed or simply stayed quiet. The nagging uncertainty kept him awake until the first hints of dawn crept through the thin curtains.

The following day, Sam entered the motel's modest restaurant, scanning for a quiet spot to gather her thoughts. But her gaze landed on Jack, already seated with a steaming mug of coffee. The sight of him, casual but alert, sent an immediate wave of irritation—and, to her dismay, a touch of relief. His gaze lifted, and when he spotted her, he gestured to the chair across from him, eyebrows raised in a silent invitation.

With a sigh, she moved toward him, careful in her steps, and sank into the chair. Her eyes, lined with the dark circles of a sleepless night, met his briefly before she dropped them into her coffee.

Jack noted the shadows under her eyes, his exhaustion mirrored in her expression.

"So, Doc," he began, keeping his tone light, "are you planning on staying here long-term, or are we heading back to town?"

Sam arched an eyebrow, her tone clipped. "We?"

Jack leaned back in his chair, his hands wrapped around his coffee mug as he offered her a wry smile.

"Yeah, my driver got called back to the Pentagon. Seems I'm not that important, so I was hoping to hitch a ride back." He chuckled, giving her a broad, disarming smile.

Sam sipped her coffee, her expression impassive, but the faintest smile tugged at the corners of her mouth before she could hide it. She didn't answer him, focusing instead on her coffee.

Jack set his mug down, eyes serious despite his lighthearted attempt at conversation.

"Look, Carter, I know this is a lot to take in. But now that…well, now that you know what I do, maybe we can talk about certain things that we couldn't, uh, before."

Her gaze remained on her coffee, but she didn't interrupt. Sensing her willingness to listen, Jack reached for a sugar packet, fidgeting with it as he continued.

"Isn't this what you wanted all along?" he asked. "To get me to talk? I mean, really talk about…well, the stuff that goes under Cheyenne Mountain."

Finishing her coffee, Sam finally looked up, her blue eyes fixed on him intently.

"Yes, Colonel. That was the purpose of these therapy sessions. Helping you work through things so you can return to active duty. But now, I find myself grappling with…information I barely comprehend. It's putting me in a position that is, to say the least, uncomfortable."

Jack leaned forward, his gaze unwavering.

"We can take it slow. You can ask whatever you want, within reason. I'll answer what I can."

She tilted her head, her gaze skeptical.

"So now you decide what I can and can't know?"

He cleared his throat, scratching his temple, but didn't look away.

"You saw Daniel's presentation, Carter. What we're dealing with isn't…ordinary stuff. I can tell you what happened on my last mission, which landed me in your office in the first place. Maybe then you'd better understand why Hammond sent me here."

She studied him, a suspicious glint in her eyes.

"You're willing to tell me about your last mission? Just like that?"

Jack swallowed, his gaze growing guarded. "

It's not easy for me. But I'm willing to try. If you are." He paused, then added, almost daringly, "It all comes down to trust, doesn't it, Doc?"

She held his gaze, weighing his words.

"Yes," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, "it does."

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, a faint smile edging onto his face.

"Right. So…do I get a ride back to town?"

A soft laugh escaped her before she shook her head.

"Sure, Colonel. I'll drive you back. We just need to find a gas station."

As she rose, Jack finished his coffee and stood, watching her with an almost relief expression. Sam threw a pointed look over her shoulder as if reminding him this was a favor, and Jack followed her, unable to suppress his smile.

An oddly comfortable silence marked the drive back to D.C.. Occasionally, Sam would glance at Jack, who watched the passing scenery with an expression that betrayed traces of weariness, humor, and something else—a guarded hopefulness. And though she didn't say it, Sam could feel her barriers shifting, if only slightly. Despite everything, some of her was glad he was still here, determined, waiting to be understood.

As the city skyline came into view, the reality of their roles settled heavily between them. With every mile, the line between therapist and patient seemed to blur, trust pulling them closer toward some uncharted middle ground. Sam wasn't sure if this was good—she knew it was far from professional. But after learning that aliens existed and posed an existential threat, her priorities had shifted. Getting the man beside her back to full strength felt more crucial than anything else, even if it meant risking her license.

As the city hummed around them, Sam guided her car into the hotel's drop-off lane, the weight of recent revelations casting a shadow between them. She pulled to a stop, shifting into park but keeping her hands on the wheel, her grip tighter than necessary. Jack looked at her as if expecting her to say something—anything—beyond the professional veneer she wore like armor.

"I'll see you in two days," she finally said, her voice even though her gaze drifted away, settling somewhere beyond the windshield. "Same time as before. I…need some time to process everything we discussed before going further."

He nodded, unbothered by the pause in their sessions. In truth, he probably needed that time too.

"Yeah, that's fine, Doc. I'll be there," he replied, slightly softening. "Thanks for the ride."

With a brief nod, Sam watched him get out, a strange mixture of relief and hesitation settling in her chest as he disappeared through the hotel's glass doors.

Inside, Jack crossed the lobby with his usual purposeful stride, grateful he was only a few steps from a warm shower andbed. He was near the elevator when the receptionist called out to him.

"Colonel O'Neill?"

Jack turned to see her waving a small notepad. "You have messages—three, from a Mr. Hammond. He mentioned it was urgent."

Jack frowned, digging into his jacket pocket and pulling out his phone, only to find the screen darkandthe battery dead.

"Damn it," he muttered, running a hand over his face. "Thanks."

He pressed the elevator button, riding up to his floor with an uneasy sense that the messages weren't just urgent—they were critical. He plugged in his phone and paced impatiently inside his room, waiting for it to gather enough charge to power on. When it finally buzzed to life, he dialed Hammond's number immediately, barely giving the phone a chance to finish ringing before the familiar, authoritative voice answered.

"Colonel O'Neill," Hammond barked, his tone uncharacteristically sharp. "You've been off-grid. We needed to reach you."

Jack could tell there was no time for excuses.

"Apologies, Sir. My phone was out. What's going on?"

Hammond's voice softened slightly but carried an unmistakable urgency.

"We've received reports of a major development in the galaxy. A new resistance movement—apparently an organized faction of Goa'uld who oppose the System Lords—has emerged. They call themselves the Tok'ra."

Jack felt his pulse quicken. "Goa'uld rebels, Sir?"

"That's right," Hammond confirmed. "If this information is accurate, they could be valuable allies. The President has approved an exploratory mission, and we need SG-1 in the field to determine if this is real."

Jack's jaw tightened. He could already feel the familiar tug, the itch to get back to the team and into action. But he knew what Hammond was about to say.

The general's tone turned steely.

"However, Colonel, I don't need to remind you that you're still on administrative hold until you're cleared for duty. I've put too much time into this to risk losing you because of protocol. So my orders are clear—get your shit together and follow Doctor Carter's therapy now that she's inside our line of business. Get cleared."

Jack closed his eyes, his chest heavy with the frustration he didn't dare voice.

"Yes, Sir," he replied, keeping his tone respectful but unable to hide the tension.

Hammond didn't offer a farewell, only a final, curt, "You have your orders, Colonel." And with a sharp click, the line went dead.

Jack sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the phone still in his hand, Hammond's words echoing in his mind. He felt the pull of duty—the urgency to return to his team and figure out what exactly this so-called resistance meant for Earth. But he was shackled, trapped by the same orders that could eventually set him free. He'd spent his life following the chain of command, putting duty above all else, but now, therapy was the final hurdle between him and his place back in the field.

He glanced at the clock. Noon. If he moved quickly, maybe he could reach Carter before she disappeared for the afternoon. This couldn't wait two days.

Dialing her number, he listened as the phone rang, once, twice…until her voicemail picked up. "This is Doctor Samantha Carter. Please leave your name and contact information, and I'll get back to you."

Jack bit back his irritation, inhaled, and left a message, his voice low but determined.

"Hey, Doc. It's Jack. Hammond called, and we need to talk. I will need a session sooner than later—call me back when you get this."

He hung up and set the phone down, his gaze fixed on the floor, jaw tight with impatience. But he knew all he could do now was wait—something he'd never been very good at.

As Sam steered her car into the garage, the hollow ache at the back of her throat sharpened, making her wince. She'd noticed it creeping in as they'd left the motel, but now, the scratchiness had bloomed into a full-blown soreness that made swallowing feel like dragging sandpaper down her throat. Perfect, she thought, parking the car with more force than necessary. Her head felt hazy, her body heavier than usual—a feeling she recognized all too well.

"Too much time standing in that damn wind on the balcony," she muttered, rubbing her forehead as she gathered her bag and slipped out of the car.

As she walked into her townhouse, the symptoms rolled over her in waves: body aches, sore throat, and a dull throb beginning behind her eyes. It was a cold—but not just any cold. Her immune system had always handled ordinary bugs with remarkable efficiency, but when one slipped through, it hit her like a hammer.

Kicking off her shoes in the entryway, she took a moment to evaluate her symptoms, going through the checklist she knew by heart—swollen glands. Check. A slight fever—she could feel it building. She grimaced, her hand moving to her temples. Just a few hours earlier, she'd been in a motel arguing with Colonel O'Neill over the boundaries of professionalism. Now, here she was, barely able to manage her house keys.

"Should have just told him to get his damn ride back," she muttered, unable to resist a faint, bitter chuckle.

But what she felt most sharply was the need to shut herself down and recover. She dug her phone from her purseand dialed her office line, which Martha picked up almost immediately.

"Martha, it's Sam. Please cancel my appointments for the next couple of days. I'm not feeling well," she said, her voice raspier than intended.

Martha immediately sounded concerned. "Oh dear, Dr. Carter, are you alright?"

"I will be. Bit of a fever, and you know me…I just need a bit of rest," Sam replied, swallowing carefully as the ache intensified. "I'll reach out when I'm able to reschedule. Thanks, Martha."

Once she'd hung up, she dropped her phone on the kitchen counter and gathered a few essentials for what she knew would be a rough couple of days. First, water—she filled a glass and drank slowly, wincing as the cold liquid met her sore throat. She prepared a pot of herbal tea, adding ginger, honey, and lemon, hoping the warmth would soothe the ache.

While the tea steeped, she took stock of her dwindling medicine cabinet. She pulled out a box of cold medicine, took a dose with a grimace, andthen retrieved a thermometer. The reading confirmed her suspicions: a low-grade fever, but she knew it would climb.

She sank into her living room couch, wrapping herself in a throw blanket and clutching the tea as she sipped carefully. The tea was mildly comfortingbutdid little to help the chill spreading through her. After a while, she got up slowly, preparing a makeshift "crash treatment" kit: cold compresses, throat lozenges, and a dose of aspirin—anything to beat back the symptoms long enough to rest.

Hours slipped by as her body grew weaker, each movement feeling labored and draining. Finally, with a shiver, she retreated to her bedroom, sinking gratefully into bed, her muscles relaxing against the cool sheets. She'd just settled in, pulling her comforter up to her chin, when she reached for her phone one last time.

As the screen lit up, she saw a missed call and a voicemail from Jack. Her stomach tightened, though she wasn't entirely sure why. Opening the voicemail, she listened to his low, rough voice.

"Hey, Doc. It's Jack. Hammond called, and we need to talk. I will need a session sooner than later—call me back when you get this."

"Shit," she whispered, leaning her head back, exasperation and concern mingling in her fevered thoughts. She barely managed to summon the energy to type out a response.

"Jack, it's Sam. I'm not feeling well, so it's impossible to reschedule the session earlier than planned. I'll try to keep the one set on for two days from now," she wrote, her hands feeling heavy as she hit send. She hoped the message was clear—she couldn't manage much more now. Sighing, she placed the phone on the bedside table, switched it off, and let her body sink further into the warmth of the bed.

With her eyes closed, she felt the lingering pressure of unfinished conversations, unsaid words, hovering in her mind like shadows. Still, they began to fade as she finally slipped into arestless sleep, hoping against hope she'd be back to herself in time.

When Jack received Sam's text, he scowled at the screen. She was brushing him off, claiming she couldn't reschedule because she was unwell. He immediately dialed her number, the frustration knotting tighter in his chest. But, after three rings, it clicked to voicemail again.

"Damn it, Carter," he muttered, clenching his jaw. She was one of the most responsible people he'd ever known—if she was ignoring him, something had to be wrong.

He called her office, hoping for answers, and was relieved when Martha answered on the first ring.

"Martha, it's Colonel O'Neill. I need to know if Dr. Carter's in today."

There was a brief pause.

"No, Colonel," Martha replied carefully. "Dr. Carter called in to cancel all of her appointments for the next couple of days."

Jack's brow furrowed, worry spiking in his gut.

"Next days? She didn't mention that in her message," he said, his voice tight. "Look, I really need to speak with her—it's urgent."

Martha hesitated, her voice growing cautious.

"I'm sorry, Colonel, but Dr. Carter was precise about canceling her appointments. She didn't say much, only that she wasn't feeling well."

Not feeling well. That again. He felt a twinge of irritation; he didn't have time to play games.

"Did she say what was wrong?" he pressed, his tone firmer.

Another pause, this one more reluctant.

"She, uh… she seemed pretty unwell, actually," Martha admitted. "She gets this occasionally, and usually… it needs…rest."

The words were careful as if she didn't want to reveal what was really going on. Jack drew a long, sharp breath. Hammond's orders were clear, and they depended entirely on Carter. But if she were sick at home, alone, this would be one long, drawn-out delay he couldn't afford.

"Thank you, Martha," he said briskly and hung up, a string of curses slipping through his teeth. She could barely get through two days, let alone however long it would take to recover from whatever was keeping her in bed.

He paced, Hammond's words echoing in his head. If this Tok'ra resistance was real, SG-1 needed to be back out there—and soon. And the only person who could get him off the bench was the one currently knocked out by a bad cold. He grabbed his jacket, a new plan already forming as he strode toward the elevator. If Carter were too stubborn to ask for help, he'd bring it to her.

The drive to Georgetown felt longer than it was. Jack's mind raced as the taxi navigated the quiet, tree-lined streets, searching for her townhouse. When the driver finally found it, he parked, and Jack paid, exiting it. He wasn't sure what to expect when she opened the door, but he knew he wasn't leaving until he got her what she needed to get back on her feet.

He rang the bell, stepping back and waiting. He heard nothing for a few secondsand began worrying she wouldn't answer. But after another moment, he saw the faint shadow of movement through the frosted glass.

Finally, the door opened a crack, and there she was—Carter, wrapped in a blanket over her shoulders, her hair disheveled, her skin pale except for the flush of fever in her cheeks. Her eyes were glassy, and she squinted as if the light from the street was painful.

"Jack?" Her voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper, her surprise evident as she clutched the blanket closer.

"Hey, Carter," he said, trying to mask his concern with a half-smile. "Didn't think you'd be answering the door looking like you just crawled out of a sickbay, but here we are."

She frowned, her brows knitting in tired irritation.

"What…what are you doing here?"

Jack held up a plastic bag containing a box of tissues, a few cans of soup, cold medicine, and a large water bottle.

"I'm here because I need you back on your feet, and it seems like that's going to require some backup," he said, his tone unyielding.

Sam looked at the bag, her exhaustion plain, and then sighed.

"I'm fine. You didn't have to do that," she muttered, though her voice lacked any real resistance.

"Well, itseems like I did," he replied, stepping forward just enough to nudge the door open wider. "Martha didn't sound too sure about anyone else helping out. So, here I am. We need you well, Doc."

She opened the door just enough to let him in, then turned and trudged back toward the living room, where she collapsed onto the couch with a faint groan. Jack followed, closing the door behind him as he took in the scene—a blanket crumpled on one end of the sofa, an empty mug, and a few scattered tissues. Her usual order and precision were conspicuously absent, and Jack could tell she was worse off than she'd let on.

"Been a while since you caught something this bad?" he asked, placing the bag on the coffee table and glancing at her with a raised brow.

"Unfortunately, yes," she muttered, resting her head on the back of the couch. "I don't get sick often, but when I do…it's not pretty."

"Figures," Jack said with a smirk, pulling out the cold medicine and handing it to her. "So, here's the deal. I know you'll want to argue, but I need you back in shape. And if that means waiting around here and forcing you to rest, then I'm staying. So take the meds, and I'll make some tea."

Her eyes narrowed at him, looking like she wanted to argue. But in her current state, even Sam Carter didn't have the strength. She took the medicine, swallowing it with a wince, and then sank deeper into the couch, closing her eyes.

He disappeared into the kitchen, quickly finding the kettle and filling it with water. As he waited for it to boil, he glanced back toward her, watching her curled up on the couch, her usually sharp eyes closed in exhaustion.

When the tea was ready, he poured a cup, brought it over, and placed it beside her.

"Here. Drink up."

She opened her eyes just enough to give him a tired nod, her fingers closing around the warm cup. "Thanks," she murmured, her voice rough but grateful.

Jack settled into the armchair, watching as she slowly sipped the tea.

"Look, Carter, I get it—this isn't exactly what you'd planned. But we're in a time crunch, and I can't afford to have you out of commission for long. Hammond's breathing down my neck, and SG-1 needs to be ready. So whatever it takes, you're getting through this as fast as possible."

She took a shuddering breath, her fingers tightening around the cup.

"I know, Jack. But I can't…snap my fingers and make it disappear." She managed a faint, weary smile. "And I'm not used to being on this end of the care."

"Well, lucky for you, I'm stubborn enough to make sure you're back in action," he replied, crossing his arms. "So get some rest. I'm sticking around to make sure you do. I'll treat you as one of my team members, and they usually don't complain."

"Usually?" She asked as she looked at him, her expression softening in a way he hadn't expected, a rare glimpse of gratitude shining through her feverish exhaustion.

He shrugged his shoulders and just smiled.

She nodded, her eyes closing again as she leaned back against the cushions. The comfort of his presence ground her just enough to let her rest finally.

Jack settled into the chair, his gaze steady on her. And as the minutes passed, he resolved to do whatever it took to get her well. His orders were clear, but his decision to stay went beyond them. Sam Carter wasn't just his therapist—she was something more. And he wasn't about to let her fight this alone.