The smell of fresh coffee filled the kitchen, blending with the faint scent of maple syrup as Sam poured batter onto the griddle. Grace sat at the kitchen table, her little legs swinging beneath the chair, humming a tune only she seemed to know. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the floor, and for a moment, everything felt simple.
But it wasn't.
There was something gnawing at the edges of Sam's mind, a tension she couldn't name. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the lingering discomfort from the ball, from the way she had locked eyes with Jack across the room before forcing herself to look away. Maybe it was just the weight of too many things she had no control over.
She flipped a pancake, watching it bubble on the surface, but her thoughts weren't really on breakfast.
"Mommy?"
Sam blinked, drawn back into the present. Grace was staring at her, head tilted to the side in that way she always did when she was deep in thought—so much like Sam it was almost eerie.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Why do you look sad?"
The question was so blunt, so unexpected, that Sam nearly dropped the spatula. She forced a small smile, reaching for the syrup. "I'm not sad, Pumpkin. Just thinking."
Grace studied her for a long moment, her big brown eyes far too observant. "About someone special?"
Sam stilled, her fingers tightening around the syrup bottle.
Grace didn't know about Jack. She didn't know that, since the day she was born, Sam had made a conscious effort to keep her world stable, to never let a man into their lives—not in a way that mattered. She had been too afraid of disrupting the delicate balance they had built, too focused on making sure Grace always felt safe, loved, and enough. But now that Grace had met 'Auntie Liz's boyfriend,' she was starting to ask questions.
She took a breath, forcing herself to relax. "No, silly. I'm thinking about pancakes."
Grace giggled. "Pancakes aren't special."
Sam smiled despite herself, ruffling her daughter's soft curls. "Oh, I think they are."
The halls of the SGC felt colder than usual. Or maybe it was just Jack.
He stood at the head of the briefing table, flipping through mission reports with an intensity that had nothing to do with the words on the pages. His fingers drummed absently against the table, his posture stiff, his jaw clenched just a little too tight. The metal of his wedding band felt heavier than usual, a constant reminder of a conversation still waiting to happen. Sara had said they were past the point of no return, but the ring was still there—an unspoken tether to a life that was already slipping away.
Sam entered the room a few moments later, a folder in hand, moving with the quiet efficiency that was second nature to her. She didn't expect anything to be different. Why would she?
She didn't know that Jack had spent half the night staring at his ceiling, picturing a little girl. She didn't know that her secret had unraveled something inside him that he couldn't quite name.
So when she sat down across from him, offering a polite but distant, "Good morning, sir," she had no idea that her mere presence felt like a loaded gun.
Jack's response was clipped. "Carter."
Something about his tone made her glance up, brow furrowing slightly.
His usual sarcasm, the dry humor that never seemed to leave his voice, was gone. Instead, there was an edge to him, something sharp and unreadable, like he was studying her in a way he never had before.
He turned to Daniel, who had just walked in, flipping the folder closed with unnecessary force. "Alright, let's get started."
The briefing ended with the usual shuffling of papers, chairs scraping against the floor, and murmured exchanges as the team prepared for the upcoming mission. Sam left the room first, her movements composed, efficient—too composed, Jack thought. He watched her go, his fingers tightening around the edges of the folder he wasn't really reading.
She had no idea that he knew.
That was good.
He needed time to process, time to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do with the knowledge sitting heavy in his chest.
Jack exhaled sharply and snapped the folder shut, his other hand absently rubbing at his temple. His headache had been building since last night, but it had nothing to do with work.
"Hey, Jack," Daniel's voice pulled him from his thoughts. The archaeologist had remained behind, Teal'c and Sam having already left, and was watching Jack with a hint of concern.
Jack didn't respond right away. Instead, he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table, and let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his lungs for far too long. He hadn't meant to linger, but maybe that's why he had stayed back—because he needed to talk to someone, and Daniel was one of the few people he trusted enough to actually listen.
Jack tapped his knuckles against the table once before finally speaking. "Sara wants a divorce."
Daniel's head tilted slightly, his face shifting from casual curiosity to something more serious. "Oh," he said, after a beat. His voice was careful, like he was gauging how deep the damage ran. "That's… I mean, I know things were difficult, but—"
Jack huffed a dry, humorless chuckle. "Yeah. Me too." He leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face before dragging it down to rest on his jaw. "It's been a long time coming."
Daniel studied him for a moment, choosing his words with the kind of consideration Jack usually had no patience for—but right now, he appreciated it. "How do you feel about it?"
Jack shrugged. It was a question he should have been able to answer easily, but he wasn't sure if he knew how. Relieved? Maybe. Heartbroken? Not really.
Tired.
That was the word.
"I don't know," Jack admitted finally. "Not surprised."
Daniel nodded, as if he understood. "I imagine the timing doesn't help."
Jack let out a dry exhale, eyes flicking toward the clock. Christmas was less than a week away. It had never been easy. Not since Charlie.
Daniel didn't push—he never did when it came to Jack and this time of year. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest. "Is there anything I can do?"
Jack scoffed, shaking his head. "Not unless you have a time machine and can tell me how the hell I got here."
Daniel offered a small, wry smile. "Well, considering we work at the SGC, time travel is actually not entirely out of the question."
Jack let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. It wasn't much, but it was something.
Daniel studied him again before speaking, his voice softer now. "Have you told anyone else?"
Jack's fingers drummed against the table. He thought of Teal'c, of Kawalsky. He thought of Sam.
"No."
Daniel hesitated, but only for a moment. "Are you going to?"
Jack let out a slow breath and looked down at his hand, at the wedding band that felt heavier than ever.
"I guess I'll have to."
And yet, as the weight of his own words settled over him, there was only one person he kept thinking about.
Not Sara. Not his team.
Sam.
And that? That was a problem.
The house was too quiet. Jack stood in the kitchen, a half-empty beer bottle in his hand, staring out the window into the backyard. Charlie's backyard. It still felt wrong to call it anything else, even after all these years. He could still picture his son running through the grass, the echoes of laughter barely clinging to the cold December air.
The sound of Sara's car pulling into the driveway snapped him out of his thoughts. He took another sip of his beer—not enough to get drunk, just enough to take the edge off.
By the time she stepped inside, he was already at the table, waiting.
Sara didn't waste time. She placed her purse on the counter, shrugging off her coat with the kind of weary efficiency that told him she'd already made peace with everything she was about to say. She wasn't here to fight. That, more than anything, told Jack how final this was.
She sat across from him, her hands folded on the table. It felt like a military negotiation.
Jack let out a slow breath. "You want to get right to it, huh?"
Sara's lips pressed together, not quite a smile. "Do we have another option?"
No. They didn't.
She exhaled, bracing herself before meeting his gaze. "We both know this isn't working, Jack. It hasn't been for years."
Jack tapped his fingers against the beer bottle, nodding slightly. "Yeah." He didn't argue. There was no point.
Sara watched him, tilting her head slightly. "I'm not going to make this difficult for you."
Jack arched an eyebrow. "That sounds like there's a 'but' coming."
She let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "No 'but.' Just... I want this done clean. No lawyers dragging this out for months. No unnecessary fights. We file, we sign, and by the end of the year, we move on."
Jack studied her, trying to find any trace of resentment. There was none. Just the same exhaustion he saw in the mirror every morning.
"I appreciate that," he said after a beat.
Sara nodded, then took a slow breath. "That being said…"
Here it was.
She met his gaze, her voice even, too even. "If there's something—someone—I should know about, now's the time to tell me."
Jack didn't flinch, but something inside him clenched. "There's no one, Sara."
She arched an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Right."
Jack's grip on the beer bottle tightened. "I mean it."
Sara exhaled through her nose, leaning back in her chair. "Jack, if I wanted to make this hell for you, I could."
His stomach turned, but he kept his expression neutral. "Is that a threat?"
"No." She shook her head. "Just a fact."
He didn't need her to explain. If she wanted to push it, if she wanted to use the Air Force's own rules against him, she could. Fraternization. Adultery. Career-ending words.
And she knew it.
But then she sighed, rubbing her hands over her face. "But I won't."
Jack let out a slow breath.
Sara gave him a pointed look. "Because despite everything, I know this job is all you have left."
That stung.
It shouldn't have, because she was right. But it still stung.
Jack leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Sara—"
She shook her head. "I don't need you to explain, Jack. Not anymore."
And that was worse. Because it meant she had already let him go.
They sat there for a long time, the silence stretching between them like the final distance of a road they had spent years trying not to walk.
Eventually, Sara reached for her purse. "I'll handle most of the paperwork. You'll just need to sign. If we keep things moving, we'll be officially done by New Year's."
Jack exhaled slowly. It was faster than he expected. But then again, this had been over for a long time, hadn't it?
He nodded. "Okay."
Sara stood, smoothing out the front of her sweater. She hesitated just long enough for Jack to notice before she finally said, "Take care of yourself, Jack."
And then she was gone.
The return to work after the holidays was always jarring—too many long hours, too many briefings, too little sleep. Sam had thrown herself back into her work, determined to bury the weight of the last few months under calculations, experiments, and reports.
Jack had done the same. And yet, he was different.
Sam wasn't sure when she first noticed it. Maybe it was the clipped way he spoke, the way his usual dry humor had dulled into something distant, as if he were standing on the other side of an invisible wall. Maybe it was the tiredness in his eyes or the way he no longer lingered in briefings longer than necessary.
Or maybe it was the fact that his wedding band was gone.
She'd spotted it the first morning back. She had caught the briefest glimpse of his left hand while he had been gesturing toward a map in the briefing room.
He wasn't wearing it.
She hadn't asked.
Jack had been avoiding unnecessary conversation with her since Washington, and frankly, she had been doing the same. They had drawn a clear, mutual line. What had happened between them—what almost happened—was not up for discussion.
So she had pretended not to notice.
And yet, as she sat in her lab, carefully cataloging the properties of an alien energy source, her mind wandered back to him more times than she wanted to admit.
She shook the thought away and turned back to her work, only to be interrupted by the familiar sound of boots in the doorway.
Jack.
"Carter," his voice was even, calm, but his presence still sent an uninvited jolt through her.
She glanced up from her tablet. "Sir?"
Jack stepped further inside, holding a file in one hand. "We've got a problem. SG-12 is stuck off-world. Something's interfering with the gate signal, and Daniel seems to think this thing—" he held up an image of a small, intricately carved artifact "—might have something to do with it."
Sam frowned, taking the file and scanning the notes. "This was recovered from P7X-992?"
Jack gave a single nod. "Yeah. Bunch of ruins. Looked harmless enough, but apparently, it might be screwing with our ability to lock onto their gate."
Sam was already shifting gears, flipping through possible solutions. "If it's emitting an electromagnetic interference, I might be able to recalibrate the dialing sequence to bypass the disruption."
"Great," Jack said, leaning slightly against the edge of a nearby counter. "How long?"
"Give me a few hours," she murmured, already pulling up a schematic.
Jack exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "SG-12 doesn't have a few hours, Carter."
Sam opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, her phone vibrated sharply against the desk.
She ignored it.
Jack arched an eyebrow. "You gonna get that?"
"It's fine," she said dismissively.
Jack let it go, at least for a moment. But then, the phone buzzed again. And again.
Jack frowned. "Carter—"
"It's not important."
The phone rang this time, insistent and loud in the quiet lab.
Jack gave her a pointed look. "Answer it."
She hesitated, then sighed in frustration before finally grabbing the device and pressing it to her ear. "Hello?"
A beat. Then, her entire expression changed.
Jack immediately noticed the way she stiffened. The way her knuckles went white against the phone.
Sam swallowed. "What—? I—yes, this is Samantha Carter."
A pause.
Jack could hear the distant, muffled voice on the other end, but not the words. Whatever was being said, Sam's reaction was instant.
Her breath caught. Her free hand tightened against the edge of the desk. Panic flickered across her face, quick and controlled, but unmistakable.
Jack straightened.
"What happened?" she asked, voice sharper now. She turned slightly away from him, as if shielding her conversation would somehow keep him from seeing the way her entire demeanor had shifted. "Is she okay?"
Jack's brow furrowed. Another pause.
Sam was still on the phone, gripping it like a lifeline, but all he could think about was the little girl. A daughter. Her daughter. It shouldn't have unsettled him the way it did.
He didn't know who the father was—had never heard her mention anyone—but there had to be someone, right? A child didn't just appear out of nowhere. Someone had been there through all of it—watching her grow, calling her theirs.
The thought sat uneasily in his chest.
It wasn't jealousy. Not really. It was something quieter, heavier. Something he didn't have the time to name.
Sam's breath hitched, bringing him back to the moment. Her shoulders were too tense, her eyes too wide. And suddenly, Jack wasn't looking at her anymore.
He was looking at Sara.
It was the same expression. The same wide, unseeing eyes. The same desperate grip on the phone.
The night Charlie died, Sara had been standing in their kitchen, her hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped the receiver. Jack could still hear the way her voice had cracked when she tried to speak. He could still feel the way his own body had gone numb when the words had registered.
It's Charlie. There's been an accident.
Sam didn't know it, but she was holding herself the exact same way Sara had that night. Like if she let go, even for a second, she would fall apart completely. Something cold curled in his stomach. He couldn't let her go through that alone.
His voice was low but steady. "Go."
Sam blinked at him, breathless.
Jack nodded once, firmer this time. "I'll take care of things here. Just go."
For a moment, she hesitated. Like she wanted to say something. Like she needed permission.
And then she was gone.
Jack exhaled slowly, turning back to the artifacts laid out on the table, but his mind was miles away.
His fingers twitched toward the space where his wedding ring used to be.
He clenched his fist instead.