Seattle (after the meeting)
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Audrey stood at the window of her hotel suite, hugging herself tightly as she stared down at the street below. Her seventh-floor room gave her a perfect view of the lively stretch of road below. At the curbside, a few cars were parked neatly in a line. But her focus wasn't on them—it was on the empty space between two of the vehicles. That spot where, a little while ago, a red motorcycle had been waiting. Where Jack had been waiting.
She could still see him standing there, his figure a faint silhouette in her mind's eye, craning his neck to look up at her window. Waiting until she made it back safely. She hadn't expected it, but Jack had insisted.
It had been the seriousness in his voice that first struck her. As they approached the underground garage, he'd asked about her hotel room—about which side it faced, what she could see from the windows. At first, she hadn't understood why he cared. But as they pulled into the shadows of the parking garage, it became clear. He had been figuring out where he could park the bike, where he could make her out behind the glass. Ensuring she returned unharmed, unnoticed, and unbothered by the Secret Service detail that should have kept her safe but felt suffocating instead.
He had thought of everything.
Audrey turned away from the window for a moment, her gaze drifting to the black gloves resting on the edge of the table near her. Without thinking, she crossed the room, picked them up, and slipped them on. They were her size, but they still felt unfamiliar, the leather stiff and lined with knuckle protectors and abrasion-resistant patches. She flexed her fingers, studying them as if seeing them for the first time.
They weren't her style. They never would be. She couldn't ever wear them in public without drawing attention—these weren't the kind of gloves a polished woman from Washington, D.C., would own. But today, on the back of that bike, they had been perfect.
Jack's voice echoed in her mind as she touched the gloves. "Keep them," he'd said as she tried to hand them back in the garage. "I can't return them anyway." She'd wanted to argue, but his tone had left no room for debate. He'd taken back the second helmet, folded the jacket she'd worn and laid it across the bike's seat to sit on it. The gloves, though—he'd insisted she keep them.
She just hadn't wanted to argue and there had been just a hurry, so she didn't question it too much. But now she wondered if there was more to it. Jack wouldn't have much use for gloves in her size. And what would he even say if Kim found them in L.A.? The thought made her lips twitch, a faint smile tugging at the corners as she imagined his awkward explanations—or lack thereof.
She pressed her gloved hands against the windowpane, looking back at the street below. She could still see it clearly in her mind—Jack flashing the bike's lights, waving up at her window, waiting until she signaled back. And he'd stayed for a moment longer, lingering, as if reluctant to leave. When the bike finally sped off into the night, she felt a pang of loss so sharp it nearly brought her to tears.
Now, standing here in her gilded cage of a suite, that feeling lingered. Her golden prison, she thought bitterly. That's how her life currently felt like.
Their goodbye in the underground garage had been hurried, stolen. She was grateful for that now. If they'd had more time, she wasn't sure what she would have done. Maybe something stupid. Maybe she would have kissed him.
Why hadn't she? Hadn't it been on her mind practically every ten minutes? Not just today, but all week, ever since she'd known they would meet? She'd thought about it, of course she had. The possibility had lingered in her thoughts, unshakable, as she'd replayed every conversation, every moment leading up to this.
But she'd held back, and so had he. They both knew better than to complicate things further.
Audrey sighed, her breath misting the glass. Because it was already complicated enough. As much as the day had felt like a first date—thrilling, full of laughter and quiet discovery—it had also felt like a last one. A farewell.
Her thoughts flickered to the diner. Jack sliding the secure phone across the table, his fingers brushing against hers for just a moment. He had thanked her for everything—for the calls, for being there when he'd had no one else. And she had brushed it off, avoiding the weight of his gratitude because she couldn't face her own feelings.
She glanced at the phone now, lying silent beside hers on the nightstand. Taking it back from him had felt like severing something vital. She could still see the sadness in his eyes as he handed it over, the way he tried to hide it behind a faint smile. "Thank you," he'd said quietly, his voice weighted with meaning.
She knew he'd wanted to say more—she'd seen it in the way he hesitated, searching for words. But she hadn't let him continue. She couldn't. Hearing it would have been too raw, too much. It would have broken something she wasn't ready to face. So she had just changed the topic. And because that had felt like yet another blow in his face, she'd scribbled her regular number on a napkin and slid it across the table to him. A desperate attempt to keep the connection alive. And he'd promised to get a phone—a promise she knew had cost him more than he let on.
Audrey leaned her forehead against the glass, her gloved hands still pressed to the pane. Even if he did get a phone, it wouldn't be the same. They couldn't talk about the things they used to. Not the threat hanging over her, not the suffocating presence of Agent Garrett or Agent Callahan, not the weight of her life in D.C. Those calls had been her lifeline, her escape. And now, without the secure phone, she didn't know how to hold onto that.
Her gaze drifted to the empty spot on the street again, her mind replaying the day. Jack had done so much for her, more than she could have ever asked. He'd scouted the route, planned the trip down to the smallest detail, even monitored her Secret Service detail. And all of it—every calculated risk, every quiet precaution—had been for her. To give her an afternoon of freedom – or the mere illusion of it.
But now, as she stood here, she realized more and more what he'd done today. Jack hadn't just replaced Agent Garrett or Callahan today. He'd become her personal Secret Service detail. Her one-man army. She thought of the gun he'd discreetly tucked away in the diner and knew, without a doubt, that he would have gone to any lengths to protect her.
Whatever it takes.
Audrey's throat tightened, and she turned away from the window, pulling off the gloves and tossing them onto the bed. She crossed the room to the nightstand, her eyes lingering on the secure phone. It felt like a piece of herself lay there, severed and silent.
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at her hands. The gloves were gone now, but her fingers still felt like wearing them, after she'd worn them for the last few hours.
But Jack was gone. The day was over. She was back, in her own life.
Audrey lay down on the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, the gloves clutched tightly to her chest. There was an ache in her heart, but her lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. The day had been perfect—a roller coaster ride of emotions and stolen moments that now felt like a dream. She felt like crying, but the memory of it all was so absurdly wonderful that she also wanted to laugh out loud.
Her fingers brushed against the leather gloves, their stiff material a stark contrast to the soft sheets beneath her. She shifted slightly, reaching into the pocket of her jeans, where the folded sheet of paper still rested. Pulling it out carefully, she unfolded it. Her smile deepened as her eyes scanned the words, her heart softening.
She let the paper rest on her chest, her mind drifting back to the diner. Their conversation had been measured, almost hesitant, as if neither of them dared to speak about what truly mattered. The things left unsaid loomed larger than anything spoken—their feelings, their connection, the fragile question of what came next.
He was so out of place in her world. Just like that pair of black gloves that lay next to her now. She'd seen it clearly as they drew closer to the hotel, his unease growing with every mile. The man she had spent the day with—the Jack in jeans and a scratched leather jacket, guiding her through the wilderness—was not meant for the polished halls of Washington, D.C. That Jack was free, untamed, authentic.
Her fingers traced the lines of the gloves absentmindedly, the leather still stiff and new, pristine in a way that felt almost out of place compared to the well-worn, weathered look of Jack's gear. The scratches on his jacket had caught her eye earlier—small marks that spoke of recent adventures. She had noticed them on the ride back, the faint scuffs along his left shoulder, and though she'd said nothing at the time, she had smiled to herself. It was those little details that made him feel so real, raw, and genuine—qualities she hadn't encountered in anyone else for years. Or had she ever?
As she pieced the image together, her mind lingered on the way the scratched leather of his jacket seemed to match the abrasions on his left glove and the damage she'd noticed on the fuel tank of his bike. It had to be another story—something in Canada, perhaps. Another dangerous moment he had brushed off in his casual, understated way, never wanting to worry her, even when she'd asked him about the dangers of his ride.
The ride back to the city had been quieter, heavier. Audrey had pressed herself against Jack's back, holding onto the moment for as long as she could. As the city loomed in the distance, she felt her freedom slipping away. The skyscrapers, the Space Needle, the familiarity of Seattle's skyline—it all reminded her that her golden cage had never been far.
In the end, they hadn't even stayed that long at the diner. Their conversation had grown awkward, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on them. The decision to leave had been mutual, a silent acknowledgment that the day was drawing to a close.
And on the road back, Jack had been focused, ever watchful. She could feel it in the way he rode, the attention he was giving to all the little things around them. His attention was on her safety, on ensuring she returned unharmed.
Her own thoughts, though, had been far from practical. The closer they came to the hotel, the more she dreaded it. She hadn't been ready for the day to end, hadn't wanted to face the inevitability of going back.
Then, at a red light, she had opened her visor and asked him something crazy.
His reaction had been instant—wide-eyed disbelief, followed by a quiet laugh. "This is crazy."
"You told me yourself you were the go-to guy if I wanted crazy," she'd reminded him, her tone light but determined.
Jack had sighed, shaking his head. "Okay, let me rephase it: this is ridiculous. Dangerous. Reckless. Stupid."
She hadn't known how she convinced him in the end. Maybe it had been the longing in her voice, the unspoken plea in her eyes. Or maybe he had simply seen how much she needed it—one last moment of rebellion before returning to her cage. Whatever the reason, he had done it.
Now, lying on the bed, Audrey stared at the speeding ticket in her hands, her lips curving into a smile. He'd pushed the bike past 120. She could still feel the rush of the wind against her body, the exhilaration and fear blending into a dizzying cocktail of adrenaline. When the police car had shown up, they'd already been going slower - 98 miles per hour in a 75 mph zone, obviously.
She remembered sitting on the roadside, their helmets off, stifling their smiles as the grim officer scribbling down Jack's details, walking back to his car to print the speeding ticket.
"I could wave my DoD credentials and ask him to let you run," she'd teased as he was out of earshot, earning a sharp look from Jack.
"Don't you dare," he'd warned. "You want your name on the police radio? Where practically everyone listens in?"
She had stayed quiet after that, though the mischievous grin on her face hadn't faded.
Now, holding the ticket, she laughed again, remembering their playful argument over who would pay for it. Jack had insisted it was his responsibility—he'd been the one driving. But she'd countered, pointing out that she had begged him to do it, making it her fault.
In the end, they'd settled it the only way they could—rock-paper-scissors. And she still had to laugh at that. At two grown-up people, sitting on a bike by the roadside, arguing about who'd pay for a speeding ticket. The ticket felt like a trophy now, a reminder of the wild, carefree day they'd shared. For a moment, she felt like she was sixteen again, living in the moment, untethered by the weight of her responsibilities.
Her smile faded slightly as she thought back to the empty spot on the street below. Of course, he wouldn't be there. Part of her wanted to go over to the windows, look down again, to find him there. But it would only hurt to see the absence of him, the absence of the bike. So she stayed lying in bed.
She turned her gaze back to the ticket, then folded it carefully and placed it on the nightstand beside the secure phone that just reminded her of their severed connection, that things between them might never be the same again, that they'd never get back to that intimacy of being able to share all their thoughts, irrelevant if classified or not.
And somewhere across the city, she knew he might be thinking the same. She could almost picture him in that small motel room, staring at the napkin with her number scrawled on it. They were worlds apart now, but for a brief, shining moment, they had been together.
Audrey closed her eyes, clutching the gloves tightly once more. She could still feel the hum of the bike beneath her, the warmth of Jack's presence, the sound of his voice as he argued with her on the roadside. Right now, the memory of it was the only thing to hold on to.
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Jack. Had finally arrived back at the parking garage of his motel. Swinging his leg off the bike, he stretched slightly, feeling the stiffness in his muscles from the long ride. As his hand moved to the handlebars to guide the bike into its spot, his eyes caught something small but unmistakable—the rear footrests.
They were still down.
Just two small steps, inconspicuous to anyone else. But to Jack, they might as well have been a flashing neon sign, screaming reminders of the day. His gaze lingered on them, and in his mind's eye, the events of the day played out like a film reel.
He could almost feel her now, her arms wrapped around his waist. Tighter than she would have needed to, if it had just been about holding on for safety. The sound of her laughter echoed faintly in his ears, the rush of wind against them, the way she had clung to him not out of fear, but something else. Trust, maybe. Freedom, definitely. The memory of her warmth pressed against his back sent a pang through his chest, sharp and bittersweet.
His hand hovered over the footrest, but he didn't move. Not yet. He let himself sink into the moment, replaying it all—the feel of her arms tightening around him as they sped away from the hotel, the look in her eyes when they stopped at the mountain. The way she had screamed at the wilderness, letting out everything she couldn't say in her gilded life. And then, that goodbye. Her silhouette in the window, her hand against the glass, as he rode away.
Jack exhaled slowly. Finally, his fingers brushed against the cool metal, and with a quiet, deliberate motion, he pushed the footrests back up.
He straightened, his hand resting briefly on the seat. The bike was back to how it had been before. Just a machine.
A while later, he sat on the edge of the bed in his dimly lit motel room, the napkin crumpled lightly in his hand. Her number. Simple, handwritten digits that he already knew by heart, because he couldn't bring himself to stop looking at them.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
The room was silent save for the faint noise of a TV in one of the adjacent rooms. He glanced at the TV in his room, it was off, dark. He couldn't bear the noise, the distraction right now.
His mind kept replaying the last image of Audrey he'd seen. Standing at the seventh-floor window, her silhouette outlined by the soft light of her room. She'd placed her hand on the glass, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but one that struck him deeply. He had responded with a flash of the bike's lights, a wave, a moment of acknowledgment.
And then he'd left.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw tightening as he relived that moment. Leaving had been…. hard. He had wanted to stay, to keep looking up at her, to hold on to the connection for just a little longer. But he knew he couldn't. Every second he lingered risked drawing attention.
And he couldn't do that to her.
Still, as he rode away, the ache in his chest felt unbearable. The cold night air bit at his skin, sharper now that her warmth was gone. The image of her hotel window lingered in his mind, her silhouette etched into his memory, growing smaller in his rearview mirrors until it disappeared entirely.
For a brief, insidious moment, the thought of finding a dealer flickered across his mind. It startled him—not because it was unfamiliar, but because it wasn't. Rehab had warned him about this: the whispers of old habits would creep back in during moments like these—hard moments, lonely moments. It wasn't the drugs he wanted, he reminded himself. It was escape. It was numbness. But giving in wouldn't erase the ache; it would only make it louder.
He gripped the handlebars tighter as he forced his thoughts back into control. Acknowledge the feeling, they'd told him. Name it. Let it pass. And so he did, focusing on the hum of the engine beneath him and the steady rhythm of the road. It wasn't easy, but he was determined to face this night sober and clean. Even if it hurt.
Jack ran a hand over his face, the roughness of his stubble a reminder of how tired he was. He had been up since before dawn, scouting routes, checking the details of their plan. Every step of the day had been meticulously calculated, every risk weighed. It had been worth it—every ounce of effort, every second of planning—to give her the illusion of freedom, if only for a little while.
But now that the day was over, now that she was back in her gilded cage, Jack couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted.
He glanced at the nightstand, where the secure phone had once rested. Now, it was gone, along with everything else that had been there the day before. The helmet, the jacket—returned to the pawn shop. The SIG Sauer too, sold back for less than he'd paid. The shop owner hadn't asked questions, and Jack hadn't offered answers. Getting rid of it all had felt like closing a chapter. But as he sat there, the memory of it left behind only an empty, unresolved ache.
His thoughts drifted to the diner. The way she had taken the secure phone from the table, her expression carefully neutral. He had tried to thank her, to put into words what those late-night calls had meant to him, but she had brushed it off, shifting the conversation before it could become too heavy.
Jack clenched his fists, the napkin crumpling further in his grip. He had seen it in her eyes—the same sadness he felt, the same reluctance to let go. But neither of them had said it. Neither of them had dared to speak the truth, and that was probably when they finally both decided to get out of the diner, and drive back to Seattle, before things became any more awkward.
Jack leaned back, staring up at the cracked ceiling. He had known from the start that he didn't belong in her world. Audrey's life was polished, controlled, filled with people like Paul or the Secretary of Defense. People who belonged to a polished, affluent world—a world of tailored suits and spotless resumes, where someone like him would never fit into.
The weight of it all settled over him, pressing against his chest. He thought about the ride back to Seattle, the way she had held onto him, her presence warm and steady against his back. He had felt the shift in her, too, the quiet resignation as the city came into view.
And then there had been the speeding ticket. Jack let out a quiet laugh, the sound bitter and self-deprecating. "This is crazy," he remembered saying when she first suggested it. And it had been. But she had looked at him with those eyes, full of mischief and longing, and he hadn't been able to say no, because he knew it himself that these might be the last moments of freedom for her in a long, long time.
The memory of her laughter as they sat on the roadside arguing about who would pay for the ticket. Even then, they had been free—two people in the middle of nowhere, teasing and laughing like teenagers.
He rubbed his hand over his face again, the laughter fading as reality crept back in. That moment, like the rest of the day, had been fleeting. An illusion.
His gaze fell to the napkin in his hand, the scrawled numbers blurred slightly from his grip. He knew he should call her. Not tonight, maybe, but soon. She had given him her number for a reason.
But even as he thought about it, doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind. What would they talk about without the secure line? What could they safely say? He was aware how much their conversation had depended on being honest. And that seemed painfully taken away now.
Jack leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees, the napkin dangling loosely from his fingers. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he let himself imagine her voice, her laughter, the way she had looked at him during those quiet moments at Mount Rainier.
He told himself he would call her. He had to. No matter what they'd talk about. And even if it was just a simple hello, a one minute conversation about their day had been (which he knew she would lie about, because she couldn't tell him about her day with the Secret Service arrangements over a normal phone line). Because if he didn't, the emptiness would swallow him whole.
He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts consumed by the image of Audrey at the window, her hand pressed to the glass as he rode away.
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Audrey stood at the window, her fingers brushing lightly against the glass. She hadn't stayed it bed, she just had to get out and look down to the spot again where she'd last seen him. The city stretched out before her, a sprawling maze of streets and lights, glowing faintly in the night. Somewhere out there, she imagined, Jack was in a small, nondescript motel, alone. Maybe it were only few streets, a few miles maximum, she thought. But tonight, that felt like more distance than back in the days when there had been 2000 miles between them.
He was closer than ever before. But also further away than ever.
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