Sam pulled her car into the garage, the low, throaty growl of the Mercedes-Benz AMG gradually fading as she shifted into park. Her chest still heaved from the adrenaline rush of the drive, the remnants of exhilaration lingering in her veins. The car's bi-turbo V8 engine had responded flawlessly to every demand, delivering smooth, relentless power as she tore down the empty roads.
She cut the engine, and silence enveloped her, starkly contrasting with the symphony of precision engineering she'd just experienced. The cabin, lined with hand-stitched leather and illuminated by ambient lighting, felt luxurious and isolated in the stillness. Her fingers lingered on the steering wheel, its perforated grip a tactile reminder of the control she'd felt—a fleeting reprieve from the chaos inside her mind.
The machine's agility, effortless acceleration, and razor-sharp handling had provided exactly what she needed. For a moment, it had been just her, the engine's hum, and the whisper of tires slicing through the asphalt. It had been exhilarating—a heady rush of freedom and precision wrapped in German craftsmanship.
It had helped—a little. The noise in her head wasn't as deafening now, dulled by the intoxicating power of the drive. Sam leaned back in her seat, letting out a slow breath. The Mercedes had done its job, grounding her in its mastery and giving her a chance to think—or perhaps not to think at all.
She exited the car and shut the door, only to see a familiar figure leaning casually against her front door. Jack. His truck was parked in her driveway, its dark silhouette starkly contrasting with the dim light from her porch. He was waiting and didn't look like he planned to leave anytime soon.
She straightened her shoulders, her heels clicking against the concrete as she approached the door. Jack met her halfway, falling into step beside her. He didn't say a word, his presence steady but unobtrusive as she unlocked the door and let them both inside.
The house was cool and quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator. Sam kicked off her heels by the door, the relief immediate. She shrugged off her jacket, hanging it neatly on the coat rack before turning to Jack.
"Do you want something to eat? Or drink?" she asked, her voice calm but clearly tired.
Jack studied her, his sharp eyes taking in her slumped posture and the faint shadows under her eyes. Without hesitation, he shook his head.
"No. You go shower. Change into something comfortable. I'll handle it."
She blinked, her guard slipping momentarily. Usually, she would argue, insist she was okay. But tonight, she didn't have the energy. Instead, she nodded and disappeared down the hallway toward her bedroom.
Jack let out a quiet sigh as he heard the door click shut. He wandered into her kitchen, surprised to find the fridge well-stocked with fresh vegetables, neatly packed leftovers, and even a bottle of wine. He smiled faintly. Maybe the cooking lessons were paying after all.
He rummaged through the contents, eventually settling on a simple stir-fry. It wasn't fancy but quick and warm—a safe bet. When he'd plated the food and set the table, he heard the soft pad of Sam's bare feet approaching.
He glanced up and almost dropped the plate in his hand. Sam stood in the doorway, wrapped in a posh black robe, her damp hair falling in loose waves around her face. She looked... soft, vulnerable, authentic. And damn hot.
Jack cleared his throat and quickly returned to the table, setting the plate down.
"Dinner's ready," he said casually, though his voice betrayed a slight edge of nervousness.
Sam sat across from him, her movements languid. They ate silently for a while, and the only sound was the quiet clink of utensils against plates. Jack stole glances at her between bites, his mind spinning with questions he wasn't sure she wanted to answer.
Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. He set his fork down and leaned back in his chair.
"So, where'd you go?"
Sam paused, her fork hovering over her plate. She glanced up at him, her expression sharpening.
"Is this going to be our daily routine? Interrogation?"
Jack raised an eyebrow, unfazed by her pointed tone.
"I was just asking."
"No, you weren't," she shot back, her eyes narrowing. "You were prying."
Jack held up his hands in mock surrender.
"Okay, fine. I'm prying. But can you blame me? You've had a hell of a day."
Her lips thinned, and he could see the fight beneath the surface.
"And what? You're here to be my knight in shining armor like Paul called you? Save me from myself?"
Jack shook his head.
"Nope. Not even close. And do me a favor—don't bring up that asshole. It kills whatever vibe we've got going here." Jack's voice softened as he leaned closer. "I'm here because I care, Sam. And for the record, I don't think you need saving."
Her eyes flashed, and she pushed her plate aside.
"You have an answer for everything, don't you?"
"Yep," he said lightly, popping a bite of food into his mouth. "I can keep this up all night if you want."
Sam's shoulders sagged slightly, the tension in her posture easing just a fraction. She shook her head, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.
"You're insufferable."
Jack grinned. "I get that a lot."
The rest of the meal passed in a similar back-and-forth, with Sam taking jabs and Jack deflecting them with effortless humor. Eventually, though, the fight drained out of her, and she fell silent. Jack cleared the plates, leaving her alone in the dining room.
When he returned from the kitchen, he found her standing by the living room window, her arms wrapped around herself as she stared at the quiet street.
He approached slowly, stopping a few feet behind her.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
She didn't turn, her gaze fixed on the dark horizon. "Which Sam do you prefer?" she asked softly. "The one from D.C. or the one here at the SGC?"
The question caught him off guard, but the answer came quickly.
"The one here," he said without hesitation.
Sam finally turned to face him, her expression unreadable.
"Why?"
Jack stepped closer, and his voice was soft but steady.
"Because the Sam here is real. The one in D.C.? She was all walls and polished surfaces. Impressive, sure. But cold. Detached. I didn't like her much."
Sam's lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. Jack pressed on, his tone lightening.
"The Sam here... she's got flaws. She's stubborn, and she doesn't always play well with others. But she tries. Like at Janet's barbecue—standing awkwardly by the grill, pretending to enjoy Kawalsky's terrible jokes." He smirked. "I like that Sam."
He stepped even closer, his voice dropping to a teasing murmur.
"Though, for the record, I'm a big fan of the Louboutins, too. Huge fan."
Sam huffed a quiet laugh, her lips curving into a genuine smile. She turned back to the window, but the tension in her shoulders had eased.
Jack's steady gaze held the back of her head, his expression open but uncharacteristically serious. Sam felt the weight of his presence, grounding her in a way she hadn't realized she needed. Her fingers twitched at her sides, torn between maintaining the sliver of distance that kept her safe and closing the gap between them.
"Look, I know today was rough. And I know you think you have to handle it all alone. But you don't. You've got people in your corner, Sam. Me included."
"Even after everything?" she asked softly, her voice laced with vulnerability.
"Especially after everything," he said firmly.
Sam turned and searched his face, looking for any sign of hesitation, but found none. The walls she had carefully constructed over the years cracked further, and before she could stop herself, she closed the distance between them.
Her hand rested lightly on his chest, and Jack stilled, his breath hitching just enough for her to notice. He didn't move away. Instead, his hand came up slowly, gently covering hers. The warmth of his palm seeped into her skin, anchoring her.
"You don't have to do this alone," he said again, his voice a quiet promise.
The words undid her. She let out a shaky breath, and before she could overthink it, she leaned into him. Jack responded immediately, wrapping his arms around her in a firm but gentle embrace. His chin rested lightly on her head as she buried her face against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek was calming and reassuring.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Sam closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the comfort of his arms. The tension in her shoulders eased as his hands traced slow, soothing circles against her back. She hadn't realized how much she needed this—a connection, a reminder that she wasn't as alone as she often felt.
"Hey," Jack murmured, pulling back just enough to tilt her chin with his fingers. His eyes searched hers, filled with an unspoken understanding that tightened her throat. "You're stronger than you think, you know."
Sam gave him a faint, bittersweet smile. "Sometimes I don't feel like it."
"That's okay," he said. "You don't have to feel it all the time. That's what I'm here for."
His thumb brushed against her cheek, and she leaned into the touch. Her gaze flicked to his lips—brief, instinctive—but it was enough for Jack to notice. He hesitated, his breath catching, before leaning down.
The kiss was light, tentative, almost like he was giving her the chance to pull away. But Sam didn't. She leaned into him, her hands clutching his shirt as the kiss deepened slightly. It wasn't hurried or passionate but warm and steady, reassuring that they were in this together.
When they finally broke apart, Jack rested his forehead against hers, his voice low.
"We okay?"
Sam nodded, her eyes still closed. "Yeah. We're okay."
They stayed like that for a moment longer, the silence between them no longer heavy but comforting. Eventually, Jack pulled back and grinned, his usual teasing demeanor returning.
"You know, I think I deserve a medal for not dropping dinner earlier. This robe of yours? Dangerous."
Sam laughed softly, shaking her head. "Trust you to ruin the moment."
"Hey, I call it as I see it," he said with a wink, earning a playful shove from her.
The tension between them had eased, replaced by something lighter, something real. When Sam returned to the window to stare at the quiet street again, Jack followed, standing close enough for their shoulders to brush.
"You ever gonna tell me where you went tonight?" he asked, his voice casual but curious.
Sam glanced at him, her lips curving into a small smile.
"Maybe someday."
Jack smirked. "I'll hold you to that."
For now, they stood together, side by side, the darkness outside no longer feeling so overwhelming.
Sam strode into her office at Stargate Command with purpose, the echo of her heels bouncing off the sterile walls. The cup of coffee she'd picked up on her way in sat forgotten on her desk as her focus honed on the object of her disdain: the burner phone.
It lay innocently in her desk drawer, the very reminder of her misstep—a symbol of everything she wanted to leave behind. Without hesitation, she grabbed it and hurled it against the wall with every ounce of strength. The sharp crack of plastic against concrete reverberated through the room as the phone shattered into pieces, scattering across the floor.
For a moment, she stood there, her breathing uneven as she stared at the broken remains. Then, with the calm precision of someone piecing themselves back together, she knelt and began collecting each shard. Tiny fragments of the screen, jagged edges of casing—she gathered them all. Then she picked up the SIM card and snapped it in two. Not a single trace was left behind as she emptied the pieces into the trash.
Once the last fragment was gone, Sam sank into her chair and exhaled slowly. The burst of fury had been cathartic, but it left her feeling hollow. The following emotions were familiar: loneliness, self-recrimination, and a quiet, simmering determination. She wouldn't let anyone dictate how she should act to earn their approval—not Hammond, SG-1, or even Jack.
They'd have to take her as she was if they wanted her. Cold. Detached. Flawed. Vulnerable on occasion. Awkward. She wouldn't pretend otherwise just to secure her place here. The SGC wasn't where she'd expected to find herself, but it had become important to her. And though she hadn't said it aloud, Jack's presence had made leaving an even heavier prospect. She'd fallen for him profoundly but learned long ago how to survive heartbreak. She could live without him if she had to. She would rather not, but…
Her intercom buzzed. "Doctor Carter? Your 0900 is here."
"Send them in," she replied, her voice level being professional.
The Major seated across from her spoke hesitantly, his posture stiff.
"It's the dreams, Ma'am. I can't seem to shut them off."
Sam scanned her notes. "You mentioned trouble sleeping. Are the dreams related to your last mission? PX8-977?"
The Major nodded, his eyes distant as he began recounting his experience. Sam leaned forward slightly, pen poised, her expression neutral but attentive. She buried her personal turmoil, focusing solely on the task.
In the mess hall, SG-1 sat at their usual table, the tension palpable. Jack stabbed at his food with his fork, his appetite nonexistent, while Daniel adjusted his glasses for the fifth time in as many minutes. Teal'c ate with his usual measured calm, his eyes occasionally flicking to the others. Kawalsky was between eating and glancing around.
"She's hiding," Daniel said finally, breaking the silence. "She didn't even stop by to say hi this morning."
Jack's fork froze midair.
"She's working, Daniel. That's what she's supposed to be doing."
"I know," Daniel replied, his tone defensive. "But after everything Hammond told us, don't you think she should... I don't know. Should try harder to connect with the rest of us?"
"Why should she?" Jack countered, his tone sharp. "She's got nothing to prove to you—or anyone else."
Janet stepped into the conversation, setting her tray down and pulling out a chair.
"You're talking about Sam," she said, though it wasn't a question.
"Yeah," Daniel admitted. "It's hard not to."
"She's a professional," Janet said. "Whatever she's dealing with, she'll handle it. But you're all acting like she betrayed everyone."
"Didn't she?" Kawalsky interjected, his arms crossed. "She was trying to leave. Reached out to someone outside the program without authorization. That's not exactly a team player move."
Jack's chair scraped loudly as he leaned forward, glaring at Kawalsky.
"And you've never made a bad call? Never done something you regretted later?"
The table fell silent, the weight of Jack's words pressing down on them. Daniel looked away, Janet frowned, and even Kawalsky had the decency to look uncomfortable.
Jack stood abruptly, grabbing his tray.
"Funny how everyone's got an opinion when it's not their life on the line." He shot them all a pointed look before walking away.
The group remained silent for a moment before Janet sighed.
"She doesn't deserve this."
Kawalsky frowned. "Doesn't she?"
Teal'c placed his utensils down with deliberate care, finally speaking.
"If O'Neill had not believed in me, I would still be the First Prime of Apophis. Sometimes, people just need a second chance."
He rose with his usual grace, taking his tray and following Jack out of the mess. The remaining group exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier conviction now tempered by doubt.
Back in her office, Sam sat quietly, her pen idly tapping against her notebook. The session had gone well—by the numbers, at least. But the emptiness lingered, an unwelcome companion she couldn't quite shake.
She glanced at the small clock on her desk. It was lunch hour. She considered heading to the mess but dismissed the thought almost immediately. She wasn't ready to face their stares or whispered conversations—not yet.
For now, she would keep her distance, focus on her work, and rebuild on her terms. They'd have to meet her halfway if anyone wanted her walls to come down. Otherwise, things would stay the same—their side and her side. It wasn't unfamiliar territory; it felt like medical school all over again. She'd been here before, and she knew how to handle it.
But this time, it hurt more. This time, she cared. She had tried not to, had tried to convince herself it didn't matter. But no matter how hard she fought it, she couldn't fool herself anymore.
Jack leaned against the doorframe of Sam's office, his arms crossed casually, though his expression was anything but. He had been watching her all day—not in a creepy way, he told himself, but with a growing concern. She hadn't left her office except to grab a coffee, hadn't engaged with anyone, and was intentionally avoiding the team. It was time to do something about it.
"Hey," he said, his voice breaking the silence.
Sam looked up from her computer, her glasses perched on her nose. Her expression was neutral, her tone as detached as ever.
"Hey."
Jack stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room briefly before settling on her.
"So, I was thinking," he started, revealing his trademark smirk. "We interrupted our culinary lessons a while back. Can I interest you in another one? My place?"
Sam blinked, momentarily thrown. That wasn't on the list of everything she expected him to say.
"Are you serious?" she asked, her tone laced with skepticism.
"Dead serious," Jack replied, his smirk unwavering.
"With everything going on, you want to… cook?" She gestured vaguely at her screen, indicating the mountain of work she had been drowning herself in.
"Hey, cooking can be therapeutic," Jack quipped, stepping closer. "And fun. And we already established that, remember?"
Sam tilted her head slightly, looking at him over the rim of her glasses.
"We have?" Her skepticism was palpable, and her humor was on a galaxy far, far away.
"Oh, yeah," Jack said with exaggerated confidence, leaning on the edge of her desk. "My place. Tonight. What do you say?"
Sam sighed and removed her glasses, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
"Jack, I don't know. Maybe another time."
Jack wasn't one to give up quickly, especially when he had a mission. He straightened and crossed his arms again, his expression softening as he looked at her.
"Look, I know things are... complicated right now. But that doesn't mean you have to go through it all alone. Or keep yourself locked up in here all day."
Sam opened her mouth to protest, but Jack wasn't done. He leaned in slightly, his hands on her desk.
"You don't have to isolate yourself, Carter, like this is a prison cell. And what I'm offering is just dinner. A little cooking, maybe a bad joke or two—nothing heavy. Come on."
She studied him for a long moment, the faintest flicker of hesitation crossing her face before she let out a small, resigned sigh.
"Fine," she said, her lips twitching in the faintest hint of a smile. "Your place. But let me go home and change first. I'd rather avoid... potential disasters."
Jack grinned, his relief evident.
"Oh, please, change," he teased. "The robe was very becoming."
Sam raised an eyebrow, a sly look creeping into her expression.
"So, robe and heels?" she asked, her voice slow and deliberate.
Jack froze, his smirk faltering as the words hit him like a freight train. For a moment, he stared at her, his brain short-circuiting again.
"Uh... that... would be difficult..." he stammered, struggling to form a coherent thought as his imagination betrayed him.
Sam bit her lip, trying and failing to suppress a laugh.
"I—I mean," Jack continued, his voice pitched higher than usual, "I can't promise a good lesson if you show up dressed like that."
Sam finally let out a soft laugh, leaning back in her chair.
"I'll keep that in mind while choosing my 'cooking outfit, Colonel.'"
Jack swallowed hard, his voice a little more serious now.
"I mean it, Sam," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Don't test me."
She smirked, returning her attention to her computer as though the conversation had never happened.
"What time?" she asked, not looking up.
Jack blinked, trying to recalibrate his thoughts. "Uh... 1900?"
"I'll be there, Colonel," she said, her tone calm, almost dismissive. "Now, let me work."
Sam waited until she heard the door close before allowing herself a chuckle. Leaning back in her chair, she shook her head, the faint smile lingering on her lips. For all his bravado, Jack O'Neill had his moments of being surprisingly easy to fluster. She hadn't missed how he froze at her teasing comment: "Robe and heels?" After the heaviness of the past few days, it felt good to share a moment of lightheartedness—something normal, something playful.
Meanwhile, Jack stepped out of her office, adjusting his collar as heat crept up his neck. He'd gone in planning to coax her out of the fortress she'd built around herself, but now all he could think about was that comment. "Robe and heels," she'd said, planting an image in his mind that refused to leave.
"Oh boy, Carter," he muttered, shaking his head as he walked down the corridor. "Focus, O'Neill. Cooking lesson. Just a cooking lesson."
Still, as she returned her attention to the screen, a small knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach. Jack's invitation had been well-meaning, but she knew he was trying to pull her out of her self-imposed isolation. She truly appreciated the effort, but part of her felt the need to keep her distance—to protect herself. He's trying. Maybe I should, too, she thought. With a resigned sigh, she made a mental note to leave her office on time and head home to change.
At 1900 sharp, Sam knocked on Jack's door, balancing a bottle of wine in one hand. Her outfit was uncharacteristically casual: dark jeans, a fitted cashmere sweater, and designer sneakers. She'd picked them up during a quick trip to Denver a few weeks ago after realizing her tailored suits and Louboutins wardrobe weren't practical for quieter evenings or more relaxed outings. The boutique she'd stumbled upon had offered just what she needed—high-quality, understated pieces that still reflected her polished taste. They felt like the perfect choice tonight—comfortable, unassuming, and unlikely to send Jack's imagination spiraling into another tailspin.
The door swung open, revealing Jack, who had just stepped out of the kitchen. He wore a black shirt and jeans, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his usual easy grin was firmly in place.
"Right on time," he said, stepping aside to let her in. "And no robe and heels, I see. I'm both relieved and slightly disappointed."
Sam looked at him, though the corners of her mouth quirked up.
"I figured I'd go easy on you."
"Much appreciated," Jack said with a smirk, leading her into the kitchen. "What's in the bag?"
"Peace offering," she replied, handing him the wine. "Since I may have... pushed my luck earlier."
Jack raised an eyebrow as he looked at the label.
"Fancy. You trying to impress me, Carter?"
"Not in the slightest," she deadpanned, setting her bag on the counter. "What culinary masterpiece are you planning to teach me tonight?"
Jack pointed to the cutting board on the counter, where an assortment of fresh ingredients was laid out.
"Stir-fry. Simple, quick, and almost impossible to screw up."
Sam crossed her arms, giving him a skeptical look.
"You'd be surprised at my ability to defy the odds in that department."
"Then it's a good thing you've got me as your instructor," Jack quipped, grabbing an apron and tossing it to her.
Sam caught it and held it up, arching an eyebrow.
"Are you kidding me? This says 'Kiss the Cook.'"
Jack grinned, unapologetic.
"It's either that or the one that says 'Grill Sergeant.' Your choice."
Rolling her eyes, Sam tied the apron around her waist and moved to the cutting board.
"Alright, Colonel, but the first one you gave me was plain black. I suppose it's in the washing machine. So what's first?"
Jack handed her a knife and pointed to the vegetables.
"Chop these. Uniformly, if possible."
Sam hesitated, eyeing the knife.
"I feel like this is a setup."
"Only if you cut yourself," Jack said with a wink. "Then I get to say, 'I told you so.'"
Despite herself, Sam smiled as she got to work. Jack hovered nearby, correcting her technique occasionally but mostly keeping the conversation light. They traded barbs and jokes as they cooked, and Sam found herself relaxing more than she had in days.
The air between them felt lighter and freer when they sat down to eat. Jack poured each a glass of the wine she'd brought, raising his in a mock toast.
"To surviving another Carter culinary adventure."
Sam clinked her glass against his, a soft laugh escaping her.
"And to your patience."
They ate in companionable silence for a while before Jack finally broke it, his tone more serious.
"So, how are you really doing?"
Sam paused, her fork hovering over her plate.
"Is this the part where you interrogate me, Colonel O'Neill?"
"Hey, I'm just checking in," he said, holding his hands defensively. "Not trying to poke the bear."
Sam sighed, setting her fork down.
"I'm... dealing with it. One day at a time."
Jack nodded, not pushing further.
"Fair enough. Just remember, you're not in this alone, alright?"
Her gaze softened as she looked at him. "I know, Jack. I do."
Dinner was a success—much to Jack's smug delight—and after clearing the table, he poured them each another glass of wine. Instead of retreating to the dining table, they moved to the couch in the living room. Jack turned on some low music, the soft hum of a jazz tune filling the space as they settled in.
Sam sat at one end of the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, cradling her glass of wine. Jack lounged at the other end, one arm casually draped over the backrest, the picture of relaxation. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, touching on everything and nothing, with an unspoken agreement to steer clear of SGC topics. To Sam's surprise, Jack's ever-expanding fishing gear collection dominated much of the discussion, as did his plans for remodeling parts of the cabin.
Eventually, the conversation quieted, and a comfortable silence settled between them. Sam swirled the last sip of wine in her glass, her gaze drifting toward the window.
Jack watched her momentarily before leaning forward and setting his glass on the coffee table.
"Hey," he said softly, his tone drawing her attention.
She turned to look at him, her expression curious. "Yeah?"
"I just want to say…" He paused, searching for the right words. "I want this, Sam. Us. But I'm not in a rush. We'll go at your pace—whatever that looks like."
Sam's chest tightened at his words, mixed emotions swirling inside her. Gratitude, relief, and something deeper she didn't dare name just yet. She set her glass beside his, leaning back against the couch as she studied him.
"I appreciate that, Jack," she said softly, her voice steady but warm. "Really."
Jack nodded, his gaze steady on hers.
"Good. Just so we're clear."
A small smile tugged at her lips. "Crystal."
He reached for her hand, then his fingers curled gently around hers. The touch was light, almost tentative, but it sent a warm rush through her. She let him pull her closer, shifting so that she was leaning against his side. His arm came around her shoulders, holding her securely as she rested her head against his chest.
They stayed like that for a while, the warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his breathing lulling her into a rare sense of peace. Jack's fingers traced slow, absent patterns along her arm, his soothing and electric touch.
At some point, she tilted her head to look up at him, their faces just inches apart. Jack's eyes searched hers as if silently asking for permission. Sam answered by leaning in, her lips brushing his in a soft, unhurried kiss.
Jack responded immediately, his hand sliding to cup her face as the kiss deepened. It wasn't frantic or desperate—just warm and full of a connection that had been building for so long. When they finally broke apart, Sam rested her forehead against his, her breath mingling with his.
"I could get used to this," Jack murmured, his voice low and rough.
Sam smiled, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
"Me too."
They kissed again, this time slower, savoring the moment. Jack's hand slipped to her waist, pulling her closer, while Sam's fingers tangled in the back of his hair.
By the time Sam finally pulled away, the room felt warmer, and her cheeks were flushed—not from the wine but from the intimacy between them. She sat up slightly, smoothing her hair as she glanced at the clock.
"I should probably head home."
Jack leaned back, his arm still draped across the back of the couch.
"You sure? The couch is pretty comfortable."
Sam laughed softly, shaking her head.
"Tempting, but I think I'll pass—for now."
Jack smirked, walking her to the door. As she stepped outside, the cool night air brushing against her skin, she turned back to him.
"Thanks for tonight, Jack," she said, her voice soft but sincere. "I needed it."
"Anytime, Carter," he replied, leaning casually against the doorframe. "You know where to find me."
As she walked to her car, she glanced back once and caught the faint, boyish grin on his face. It stayed with her all the way home, a quiet reminder that, maybe, she wasn't as alone as she sometimes felt.