Sydney Logan had always been an early riser. Years of discipline, first under her father's roof, then in the Army, had ingrained the habit so deeply that even on days when she wanted to sleep in, her body wouldn't allow it. It worked to her advantage, though, especially on mornings like this one—her first Monday at her new post.
She arrived at the JAG office before sunrise, settling into a quiet space that still smelled like fresh paint and industrial-strength cleaner. Her new office was smaller than the one she'd had in Germany, but she didn't mind. It was hers. Unpacking could wait. First, she had work to do.
The case file had landed on her desk Friday afternoon, just before she left. It was one of several, but this one had caught her attention: a straightforward smuggling case involving two soldiers caught moving stolen military supplies for personal profit. The MPs had already made their arrests, compiled their reports, and referred the case to JAG for prosecution. On paper, it looked open and shut.
But Sydney never trusted anything that looked too easy.
She flipped through the file again, brow furrowing at a few inconsistencies that stood out. Some of the statements didn't quite line up. A key witness had changed his story mid-investigation. The timeline felt… off. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe the MPs had wrapped it up too fast. Either way, she wasn't going to just sign off on it.
The investigating officer listed on the report was one she vaguely recognized. A Major Jack Reacher. She knew the name in passing—had heard it once or twice over the years. He had a reputation. An exceptional investigator, sure, but also someone difficult to work with. He followed the rules when it suited him and ignored them when it didn't.
Sydney had met men like him before. Lone wolves. Mavericks. Soldiers who played by their own rules and got away with it because they were good at what they did.
She wasn't impressed.
She checked her watch—he wasn't due in for another twenty minutes, but she didn't feel like waiting. Sydney grabbed the case file, left her office, and made her way across the base to the building where the MPs worked. She walked the halls, scanning for his office. She finally found it tucked away in a back corner
The door was unlocked.
Inside, the office was spartan—just a desk, a filing cabinet, and a single chair. His.
Sydney glanced around. No coffee cup rings. No personal items. No signs that anyone actually spent time in here. She took that as confirmation of what she'd already assumed: Jack Reacher didn't put down roots.
Since there was nowhere to sit, she leaned against his desk, flipping through his case file while she waited.
She didn't have to wait long.
Footsteps. Heavy ones. A moment later, the door swung open, and the man himself walked in.
Jack Reacher was big. Bigger than she'd expected. Easily six-five, built like someone who spent most of his time lifting heavy things and breaking through walls. He wore his fatigues like they were an afterthought, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the kind of muscle you didn't get from the standard PT routine. His hair was short, his face unreadable. If he was surprised to see her in his office, he didn't show it.
His gaze flicked from her to the file in her hands. "You're in the wrong office."
She met his stare evenly. "I don't think I am."
He studied her for a second, then closed the door behind him.
She didn't offer her hand. Neither did he.
"You're Major Reacher."
"Just Reacher, ma'am."
She arched a brow. "Not big on rank?"
He shrugged. "Not big on formalities."
She let that go. "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Sydney Logan, JAG.
Reacher didn't offer his hand, and she didn't seem to expect him to. Instead, she straightened up from his desk, squared her shoulders, and waited. She was assessing him, just like he was assessing her. He appreciated that. No wasted pleasantries, no unnecessary small talk.
"I'm replacing Colonel Paxton" she continued. "I understand you worked with him frequently."
Reacher snorted. "If you want to call it that."
Her expression remained neutral. "You didn't think much of his work?"
Reacher took a sip of his coffee. "I brought him solid cases. Slam dunks. Ironclad evidence, cooperative witnesses, airtight charges. And he still found a way to fumble half of them."
Sydney nodded, as if she'd expected that answer. "I read the case files. I noticed the trend."
That made Reacher pause for a beat. "Did you?"
"Yes. Which is why I'm here." She gestured to the file in her hand. "This case, I wanted to go over it with you."
Reacher didn't sit. He leaned against the filing cabinet, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching her. "Ask your questions."
Sydney opened the file. "The timeline. The witness statements. They feel off. There's a discrepancy in the inventory log and what was actually recovered. According to this, the shipment went missing on a Tuesday. But the transport officer says he signed off on it Wednesday morning."
Reacher nodded slowly. "Transport officer got the date wrong. He was covering his ass."
"Maybe," Sydney said. "Or maybe someone else is. One of the witnesses changed his story halfway through your interview. Said he didn't remember seeing the second suspect near the supply bay. Earlier, he claimed he saw him helping load crates."
"I know." Reacher's voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "He changed it after the guy's platoon sergeant pulled him aside. Intimidation, maybe. Or loyalty. Either way, it didn't change the outcome. The physical evidence still puts both suspects at the scene."
Sydney met his gaze. "But if the testimony's compromised, and the timeline doesn't hold up, the case might not be as ironclad as it looks."
Reacher gave a small shrug. "Doesn't mean it's wrong."
"No," she agreed, "but it means it's vulnerable. Especially in court."
Something flickered in his expression—acknowledgment, maybe. Or mild irritation. "You think I missed something?"
"I think you made a judgment call," she said evenly. "One I might not have made."
He pushed off the cabinet, stepping closer. "And you'd know better than the people who were there? Who saw it firsthand?"
"I'd know better than to assume a gut feeling is the same as proof."
They stared at each other, the silence between them thick with unspoken tension. Neither backed down.
Finally, Reacher gave a quiet grunt and took a sip of coffee. "Most JAG officers would've rubber-stamped it and called it a day."
Sydney's reply was immediate. "I'm not most JAG officers."
That earned the faintest curve of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But close.
She closed the file, tucked it under her arm. "We're going to need to review the statements. Talk to that transport officer again. Maybe the witness, too."
"I'll set it up," he said. "You want to be there?"
"I wouldn't have come all this way if I didn't."
Reacher nodded once. "Suit yourself."
She turned to leave, then paused at the door. "You always leave your office unlocked?"
His answer came with a flicker of dry amusement. "You always show up in other people's offices uninvited?"
Sydney looked back at him over her shoulder. "Only when I don't feel like waiting around for answers."
This time, his smile showed. Barely. "Good to know."
She didn't smile back. But her eyes lingered a second too long before she turned and walked out.
The next two days passed in a blur of interviews and logistics. Sydney and Reacher worked in tandem, re-questioning the transport officer and the key witness who'd changed his story. Neither man gave them trouble. The transport officer admitted his mistake—he'd been distracted, working a double shift—and the witness stood by his revised statement, explaining that his original version had been based on an assumption, not what he actually saw.
No surprises. No last-minute complications. If anything, the re-interviews confirmed the strength of the case, and Sydney felt confident moving forward with charges. It wasn't perfect, but it was solid. More importantly, it would hold up in court.
By the end of the second day, she told Reacher as much.
He just gave a small nod, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "Told you it wasn't wrong."
Sydney didn't argue. He'd earned that one.
Base Gym — 0500 Hours
The air in the gym was cool, still heavy with the faint scent of rubber mats, sweat, and antiseptic. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across the weight racks and punching bags. It was early. Too early for most. But Sydney liked it that way.
She was in the far corner, fists wrapped, tank top damp with sweat as she delivered a sharp combo—jab, cross, roundhouse kick—to the heavy bag in front of her. She moved with precision and power, her breath steady, her rhythm practiced.
This was her ritual. Her space. The one place she could burn off the chaos and reset.
She didn't hear the door open, but she sensed the shift—the sudden awareness that she wasn't alone.
Reacher stepped into view a moment later, wearing black PT shorts and a tight, sleeveless Army tee that clung to his frame. His arms were massive, corded with muscle, veins prominent down his forearms. He walked past the cardio machines without a glance, heading for the free weights.
Sydney didn't pause. But her eyes tracked him in the mirror.
He racked a pair of heavy dumbbells and started a slow, controlled set of curls, silent except for the steady exhale of breath. No music. No headphones. Just focus. She caught herself watching him longer than she meant to, gaze lingering on the way his shoulders flexed beneath the fabric of his shirt. He looked like he was built to carry weight—literal and otherwise.
Reacher, for his part, noticed her too. His eyes flicked toward the punching bag as he set the dumbbells down. "You hit like you mean it."
Sydney turned slightly, wiping sweat from her temple with the back of her wrist. "Better the bag than someone else."
"Depends who it is," he said, not quite smiling.
She smirked, just a flicker. "You come here often?"
"When I can't sleep."
She nodded. "Same."
They didn't say anything else. Not right away.
Instead, they worked in silence—separate, but aware. The tension wasn't sharp or antagonistic anymore. It had shifted. Subtle now. Coiled beneath the surface, alive in the space between glances. Sydney kept her eyes on her target, but she could feel his presence like gravity. And Reacher? He didn't try to hide that he was watching her.
When she finally finished her set, she unwrapped her hands and tossed the wraps into her gym bag. Reacher was loading a barbell nearby, his expression unreadable.
"See you around," she said, heading for the door.
His voice followed her. "You will."
JAG Office – The Next Morning
Sydney was already seated at the long conference table when Reacher walked in, coffee in one hand, case file in the other. She'd requested they go over his testimony before the pre-trial motions began. Officially, it was standard procedure. Unofficially, she wanted to make sure there were no surprises—and maybe understand how his mind worked a little better.
He dropped into the chair across from her, his movements efficient and quiet. His sleeves were rolled again. Same forearms. Same calm intensity.
Sydney didn't let her eyes linger this time.
"I want to walk through your statement," she said, sliding a printed copy of his report toward him. "The prosecution will lean heavily on your testimony. We need to make sure everything tracks cleanly."
Reacher took the paper without comment, scanned it once, then looked back at her. "You think I'm gonna say something I shouldn't."
"I think you're a man who likes to operate off-script."
He tilted his head like that wasn't entirely unfair.
She clicked her pen. "Walk me through the arrest again. Step by step. Just like you'll say it in court."
For the next hour, they worked in close, focused silence. Reacher recited the timeline with crisp detail—how he first got the tip, how surveillance confirmed the movements, how he caught the suspects with contraband in their truck, mid-transfer. His recall was precise, but never robotic. He didn't embellish. He didn't speculate. Just the facts.
Sydney listened carefully, only interrupting to fine-tune wording or ask clarifying questions. Occasionally, their fingers brushed when passing documents back and forth. Neither of them mentioned it.
At one point, Reacher leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You planning to prep the witnesses like this too?"
"I already did."
"You always this thorough?"
"Only when it matters."
A pause. His eyes stayed on hers. "Does this one matter?"
She didn't blink. "Yes."
There it was again—that quiet tension, hovering between them like humidity. Not spoken. Not acted on. But felt. Strong enough that Sydney had to look back at her notes just to break the pull.
She handed him a highlighter. "Mark any section where you'd be tempted to ad-lib."
He took it, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. "I don't ad-lib."
"I've seen your reports. You improvise with structure."
He grinned, the first real one she'd seen. "Now that sounds like a compliment."
"Don't get used to it."
He laughed once under his breath, then went back to marking up the page.
Sydney resisted the urge to smile.
Base Gym – 0500 Hours
The steady thud of fists hitting leather echoed through the mostly empty gym. Sydney worked the heavy bag with quiet precision, her black workout tank clinging to her from the effort. Her strikes were fluid—controlled but powerful. Jab. Cross. Elbow. Step back. Kick.
She'd already been there for thirty minutes, the repetition calming her nerves about the trial. She didn't expect company. She liked it better that way.
Then, just like before, she felt the shift.
The gym door creaked open behind her. She didn't stop, but her awareness sharpened.
Footsteps. Heavy, familiar.
She caught his reflection in the mirror: Reacher, again in a sleeveless tee, shoulders broad and solid, muscles cut like stone beneath his skin. He looked like he'd come from a war zone and stopped only to stretch before lifting a truck.
He didn't say anything at first. Just gave her a nod as he passed by.
She acknowledged him with the briefest look, then turned back to the bag, already feeling the weight of his presence in the room.
Reacher set down a kettlebell and started warming up with quiet efficiency. No headphones. No music. Just that same focused energy she remembered.
After a few minutes, he moved closer—not too close, but near enough that his voice reached her between punches. "You sleep?"
"Like 4 or 5 hours," she replied, still moving. "You?"
"About the same."
She gave the bag one last sharp kick before stepping back to breathe, hands on her hips.
Reacher leaned against the wall, arms folded. "You ready for today?"
"As I'll ever be."
He nodded slowly, gaze flicking from her eyes to the sheen of sweat on her skin, then back. "You don't pull punches."
Sydney picked up her towel, wiping her neck. "Not my style."
He watched her for a beat longer, then added, "I'm guessing that applies in court, too."
She smirked, just a little. "You'll find out soon enough."
Reacher didn't push for more. He just gave a small nod, as if filing that away, and went back to his set. Sydney watched him for half a second longer than necessary, then turned and grabbed her water bottle.
The silence between them wasn't awkward. But it was beginning to buzz with something quieter, heavier—something neither of them was fully aware of yet.
She took a sip, then glanced over her shoulder. "You coming to court in your service uniform?"
He paused mid-rep, gave her a sidelong glance. "You want me in my greens?"
Sydney shrugged. "You're testifying. Might help with the jury."
He considered that for a second, then gave a noncommittal grunt. "Alright."
She smirked again, more to herself this time, and started gathering her things. She slung her gym bag over one shoulder, her movements easy now, the edge of tension she'd walked in with worn down.
At the door, she looked back at him one last time. He was mid-set again, focused, muscles flexing with controlled force. Her gaze lingered—for a moment, just a moment—then she caught herself.
"I'll see you in court," she said.
Reacher didn't look up, just answered low and certain, "Looking forward to it."
And she left, feeling the heat of that answer long after she stepped into the cool morning air.
Courtroom – Mid-Morning
The courtroom was packed but quiet, the kind of silence that felt taut, waiting. Sydney stood at the prosecution table, shoulders squared, voice steady as she questioned the witness on the stand.
"Major Reacher," she said, her tone crisp, "please describe what you observed the night of the arrest."
Reacher sat tall in his uniform, his posture relaxed but unshakably present. "Two soldiers loading unmarked crates into a vehicle behind the supply depot. I approached, identified myself. One ran. The other stayed put. Both were in possession of restricted items."
His voice carried easily. Calm. Certain. Not performative.
Sydney walked him through the sequence—how he'd received the intel, what he'd done to verify it, how he'd confirmed identities, read the suspects their rights, and documented everything by the book. He never hesitated, never embellished. Just facts. Clear and sharp.
And all the while, he kept looking at her.
Not constantly. Not obviously.
But every time she asked a question, his eyes came back to hers. Focused. Steady. Like he wasn't just testifying—he was studying her. Listening, yes, but also watching her.
She noticed it. Tried to ignore it. Failed.
It did something strange to her rhythm. Not enough to rattle her. Just enough to make her aware of herself in a way she usually wasn't when in court—how she stood, how her voice sounded, how much heat prickled at the back of her neck.
The opposing counsel barely dented Reacher on cross. He stayed unshaken, gave nothing away, and when he stepped down from the witness stand, Sydney found herself exhaling more slowly than she meant to.
As he passed her table, he didn't speak. Just met her gaze for a half second.
But there was something in his eyes.
Something that said I saw you.
And she wasn't sure what unsettled her more—that he had, or that she'd wanted him to.
Courtroom – The Next Morning
By the following morning, the prosecution had rested, and the defense was presenting its case. Sydney remained exactly where she thrived—on her feet and in control.
She stood before the witness stand, one hand resting lightly on the railing, the other holding her notes—though she didn't need them.
The sergeant on the stand was already sweating. He'd given a shaky response and now sat rigid, eyes darting toward the defense table like they might save him. They wouldn't.
Sydney's voice stayed calm. "Let me ask again, Sergeant. What time did you say the truck left the depot?"
He hesitated. Just a blink too long.
"Was it 2200 hours? Or 2330?" she pressed, her tone still even.
"Uh—2330."
She nodded, flipping a page for effect. "That's interesting. Because in your sworn statement from the night of the arrest, you wrote 2200. And in your follow-up interview, you told Major Reacher 2230. So… which version is the truth?"
The man squirmed. "I—I guess I got mixed up—"
"That's three different times under oath," Sydney said, cutting him off with the kind of quiet finality that always landed harder than shouting.
She let the silence drag for half a beat. Then: "No further questions."
She turned and walked back to her seat, keeping her expression neutral even as the judge sustained her objection to the defense's clumsy attempt to pivot.
Only once she sat down did she allow herself to breathe—slow and measured. The adrenaline hadn't faded yet. It never did right away.
Then she felt it.
A flicker at the edge of her awareness. She didn't look toward the gallery, but she knew he was there.
Reacher.
She could feel his eyes on her. Not in a distracting way—just steady, focused. Like he was studying her the same way she had studied that witness. Watching how she moved, how she worked.
It sent a prickle down the back of her neck she didn't want to acknowledge.
Sydney kept her eyes forward, reviewing her notes. She didn't turn around. Didn't need to.
Because even without looking, she knew exactly where he was.
And she knew he was still watching.
By late afternoon, the courtroom had emptied into a low hum of uncertainty. The defense had rested, the jury was in deliberation, and the judge had called a recess until a verdict was reached.
Sydney stood by the prosecution table, gathering her files with methodical precision she didn't quite feel. The adrenaline had faded, replaced by the heavy stillness of waiting.
Reacher hadn't left.
He sat a few rows back in the gallery, still in uniform, hands folded loosely in his lap, watching her.
When she finally turned to leave, he stood. Didn't approach—just waited until she met his eyes.
She nodded. "Most investigators don't stick around after they testify."
Reacher met her eyes. "Most of them weren't watching Paxton screw up their cases."
She tilted her head slightly. "And you're here to see if I can do better."
"Something like that."
There was no challenge in his voice—just fact. Which, somehow, made it land harder.
Sydney held his gaze for a beat, then gave a faint nod. She turned and walked toward the door.
Reacher fell into step a moment later, neither of them speaking as they exited the courtroom together.
Not side by side. Not quite apart.
Just moving in the same direction.
Courtroom – The Next Morning
The jury filed in just after 0900. No one looked at the prosecution. No one looked at the defense. They rarely did.
Sydney stood at the table, hands lightly clasped in front of her, face unreadable. Her uniform was crisp, her posture still. But inside, a coil of tension sat just beneath the surface—tight, quiet, waiting.
She glanced toward the gallery.
Reacher was there. Same seat as before. Still. Watching.
The foreman stood.
"In the matter of United States vs. Corporal Dillon Price," he said, voice steady, "we, the jury, find the defendant guilty on all counts."
A breath passed through the room. Not loud. Just a subtle exhale—relief, frustration, finality—depending on which side you were on.
Sydney didn't react. She nodded once, calmly, then resumed her seat as the judge thanked the jury and issued the formal sentencing schedule. The defense looked gutted. She didn't look at them.
She didn't look at Reacher, either.
Not until the courtroom had emptied again and she was gathering her things. When she finally glanced toward the back, his seat was empty.
He was already gone.
Base Gym – The Next Morning
The punching bag swayed under the force of her last strike, breath still catching in her chest as Sydney stepped back, gloved hands resting on her hips. Her muscles ached in that clean, satisfying way—earned, not frayed.
The courtroom had been silent after the verdict. So had she. She hadn't seen Reacher since. Hadn't expected to.
But when the gym door opened behind her, she somehow wasn't surprised.
She didn't turn right away, just kept her eyes on the bag, steadying her breathing.
The footsteps were unmistakable—slow, deliberate, heavy without being loud.
"Morning," Reacher said, his voice calm as always.
"Morning," she returned, unwrapping her gloves without looking at him.
He was already moving to the weights, dressed in the same sleeveless tee, quiet as ever. They said nothing for a while—just worked. Two bodies moving through muscle memory, alone but not really.
Finally, he spoke, voice low over the clink of iron. "You handled it well."
She didn't ask what he meant. She knew. "It was a clean case."
"You made sure of that."
Sydney tossed her wraps into her gym bag and took a long drink from her water bottle.
"I noticed you weren't in the gallery afterward," she said.
"I was," he replied. "Just didn't stay."
She nodded once. "Fair enough."
Another silence stretched out. Not uncomfortable. Just there. Present.
As she reached for her towel, she glanced at him—just a flicker. "So? Did I do better than Paxton?"
Reacher didn't smile, not quite. But his eyes met hers across the gym floor, steady and clear.
"Yeah," he said. "You did."
Then he picked up the barbell again like it was just another set, just another day.
But the air between them felt different now.
Like something had shifted. Even if neither of them would say it out loud.
.
AN: If you've looked at my other FanFic (that's been abandoned), you likely noticed my OFC's name is the same. It's a good name, IMO. Felt like using it again and felt like it fit this character too, as she's similar in many ways.
I've not read any of the Reacher books, yet. I plan to soon though. But I have watched the TV show, so my knowledge of Reacher and his world is based on that. If there was a Reacher category under TV, I would've put this story there, but since there isn't, putting it under the book category was my only option.
I was a huge fan of the TV series JAG, so my military court knowledge comes from it. In general, with the military stuff, I'll try to be as accurate as I can, but I'll probably get stuff wrong. It's just the backdrop for the story though, so I'm not too concerned with it. This is fiction after all.
Also, I won't try to pretend otherwise. While the ideas herein and general plot are mine, ChatGPT has helped me out with this a lot. Had it been around back in '08 when I was writing my CSI:NY fic, I probably wouldn't have abandoned it.