Page 75 of Undercover Hearts
"I'm here because I want to be," Jenna said after a moment, her voice soft but firm. "No guilt. No obligation. Just choice."
Something loosened in Michelle's chest—a tension she hadn't fully recognized until it began to release. Meeting Jenna's eyes, she found nothing but honesty there, along with a patience that suggested Jenna would wait as long as necessary for Michelle to believe her.
"Okay," Michelle said finally, the simple word carrying acceptance of far more than just Jenna's stated motivation.
As afternoon sunlight filtered through the hospital blinds, painting golden stripes across the institutional bedding, Michelle felt something shifting within her. The frustration remained, along with the fear of limitation. But alongside these grew something new—a tentative openness to the possibility that recovery might not be a solitary journey, that accepting help might not equate to weakness, that Jenna's presence represented neither duty nor pity but genuine choice.
Michelle stared at her apartment door with growing apprehension. After nine days in the hospital, release should have felt liberating. Instead, as Jenna unlocked the door with the spare key Chief Marten had provided, Michelle found herself hesitating at the threshold.
Her apartment looked exactly as she'd left it over a month ago before the undercover operation. Everything in its proper place and surfaces clear of clutter, a minimalist space designed for efficiency rather than comfort. The leather couch showed no indentations from regular use. The kitchen counters gleamed with neglect.
Seeing it through Jenna's eyes, Michelle suddenly recognized how impersonal the space appeared. No indication that anyone actually lived here rather than simply existing between work shifts.
"Bedroom's down the hall?" Jenna asked, setting Michelle's hospital bag on the counter.
Michelle nodded, feeling oddly like a visitor in her own home. "First door on the right. Bathroom's across from it."
Moving through the apartment with careful steps, still unsteady from medication and weakness, Michelle registered how Jenna's presence immediately altered the space. Her jacket draped over a chair back. Her bag placed beside the couch. The quiet energy she brought to even the most mundane movements.
"Dr. Hassan said you should rest after the drive," Jenna noted, arranging pillows on the couch. "Would you prefer the bedroom?"
"Here is fine," Michelle said, unwilling to retreat further into the apartment.
As Jenna moved to the kitchen to assess meal options, Michelle closed her eyes briefly, fatigue washing through her inwaves. The drive from the hospital, though short, had drained what little energy her healing body had stored.
"Chief Marten called this morning," Jenna said, returning with a glass of water. "The DA has formally charged Sienna and Isabella. The indictment includes all three original victims plus the additional cases they've connected."
Professional satisfaction provided firm ground beneath Michelle's swirling emotions. "Good. Those women deserve justice."
"Nicole's testimony confirmed they knew the drugs were potentially lethal. They continued distribution anyway." Jenna's voice carried controlled anger that reminded Michelle of her passion for justice—one of the qualities that had drawn her to Jenna from the beginning.
The shop talk created comfortable territory, allowing them to navigate their new reality through the familiar lens of professional purpose. For several minutes, they discussed case details, the rhythm of their exchange reminiscent of their most effective moments during the operation.
But as conversation faded, uncertainty resurfaced. In the safe house, silence had developed its own language between them. Here, it felt laden with unspoken questions.
Their food arrived, and they ate with minimal conversation. Michelle found herself watching Jenna's hands: the deft movements as she opened containers, the careful way she positioned everything within Michelle's reach. Those same hands had pressed against her wound on the cliffside, had arranged her pillows in the hospital, and now served her food in her own home.
"There's something surreal about this," Michelle admitted suddenly.
Jenna looked up, a question in her eyes.
"Being here. After everything." Michelle gestured vaguely with her good arm. "The operation feels more real than this does."
The admission hung between them, Michelle's uncharacteristic vulnerability momentarily unguarded by medication and exhaustion.
Jenna set down her fork, giving Michelle her complete attention. "Because of what we became during it?"
The directness of the question should have been uncomfortable. Instead, Michelle found herself appreciating Jenna's unwillingness to dance around truth.
"In part," she acknowledged. "But also because of what was there before it." She gestured at the apartment's sterile surroundings. "This isn't really a home. It's just where I keep my things between work shifts."
The admission cost her more than she'd expected. Michelle had cultivated her independent, self-sufficient identity for decades. Allowing Jenna to see the hollowness beneath that exterior felt like removing armor she'd worn so long she'd forgotten it wasn't her actual skin.
"The safe house felt more like home after three weeks than this place has after three years," she continued.
Jenna's expression held no judgment, only thoughtful consideration. "Home isn't just a physical space. It's where you feel connected."
The simple observation struck Michelle with surprising force. Connection had always been secondary to purpose in her life. With Taylor, she'd compartmentalized—work separate from home, captain separate from partner—until the divisions had cracked under pressure.
