Washington D.C., October 1977.

The Bureau gym is nearly empty, the hum of fluorescent lights cutting through the quiet. The only sound comes from Agent Anthony Jackson—his fists pounding into the heavy bag in a rhythm as deliberate and disciplined as the man himself. Every strike is a release, a wordless argument with the world that never quite lets him breathe easy. The day had been long, another round of subtle dismissals and quiet prejudice, and worse yet—he’d had to sit still while his partner was questioned like she didn’t know her own damn job.

Now, it’s just him, his breath, the sting in his knuckles, and the ache that never really goes away. Jackson’s the kind of man who carries control like armor—trained, contained, never letting emotion leak through the cracks. But then the door creaks open behind him.

He doesn’t have to look to know it’s her. His partner. The woman who took a bullet for him back in Swain County. The one person in the Bureau who can read the silence between his words.

When he turns, everything shifts. She’s standing there—leaned against the doorway, eyes locked on him. And the look in her eyes isn’t professional. It’s something else—something he shouldn’t want while on bureau property, but can’t ignore.

He’s still catching his breath, sweat rolling down the line of his throat, shirt clinging to his chest—and she’s watching him like she’s figuring out the best way to take him apart. The air gets thick between them, a pulse of electricity in the stillness. Jackson wipes his brow, tries to play it off, but the smirk tugging at her mouth tells him she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“You gonna stand there all night,” he asks, voice low and rough, “or you gonna tell me what’s on your mind?”

It’s not supposed to sound like that. Not that warm. Not that close. But now she’s moving toward him—slow steps, deliberate—and he realizes there’s no going back to that carefully crafted facade of Bureau formality after this.

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