The jet touched down smoother than usual, wheels humming across the tarmac as the world pulled back into motion. The others were already stretching, reaching for their go-bags, murmuring about coffee or the early briefing back at Quantico.

You moved to sit up, pushing the blanket (his jacket, technically) off your lap and rubbing your eyes. The plane still felt too warm, your head still fogged.

“You’re still half-asleep,” came Gideon’s voice, low near your ear. “Let me.”

Before you could respond, his hand slipped around yours — not a brush, not just a nudge — but a full, steady grip. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You blinked, a little stunned, but he was already standing, tugging you gently to your feet. His other hand wrapped around both your go-bag and his own like it was nothing.

“Gideon—” you began.

He shot you a look — not harsh, not impatient — just final.

“No one’s looking,” he said, even though you both knew they probably were.

Outside the jet, the air was colder, crisper, and your hand was still in his. He didn’t drop it. Not even when you caught sight of Emily raising a very deliberate brow from a few paces ahead. Not even when Morgan muttered something under his breath that you couldn't quite catch.

He just walked beside you, silent and steady, the weight of his hand around yours saying everything he hadn’t said out loud.

It wasn’t possessive in the loud way.

It was quiet, firm, undeniable.

He only let go once you reached the cars — but even then, it was only to open your door first.