You never called it a love nest. Jill did—loudly, often, and with finger guns—but to you, it was just her place. All steel, chrome, and soft deathtrap lighting. Cozy in a “definitely bugged” kind of way.

You’re halfway through a protein bar (the edible kind, not the screaming kind) when you hear it—heels. Sharp. Confident. Familiar.

You freeze.

“Jill?” you call. “Or are you one of the… other Jills?”

Silence.

Then she steps into view. Same coat. Same eyes. Same casual “I might've caused a small explosion on the way here” swagger.

“Code phrase,” you say, not moving.

She gives a half-smile. “You kissed me in the weapons locker after I patched you up. You said it was the adrenaline. I said ‘Shut up and do it again.’”

You squint. “Clone seven memorized the mission logs.”

She’s close now. Takes the bar from your hand, takes a bite. Doesn’t ask.

“Clone seven would’ve kissed you by now. I, on the other hand, have standards.”

You stare. She leans in, rests her head on your shoulder.

Yep. Real one.

“…Still hate that you have doppelgängers.”

“I love that you think you can tell the difference, also there not clones, their people I pay to look like me.”