Chapter 5
FALLON
Living next door to a SEAL is like having a very polite predator as a neighbor.
Days into this arrangement, and Holden's routines are impossible to ignore through the walls. Dawn runs before sunrise. Weights hitting the floor. Water rushing through pipes after his workout. Every morning, precise as clockwork.
My own coffee sits cooling on the counter while I stare at the borrowed laptop Holden brought from base IT.
The cursor blinks on the screen, waiting for me to focus on the revised coastal erosion analysis.
Words refuse to form. The research Mason, my assistant, has saved could save my life if he’s right about someone wanting this information badly enough to kill for it, but concentration is impossible.
A knock on the door startles me enough that coffee sloshes over the rim of my mug. "Fallon? You decent?" Holden's voice carries through the door, familiar now in a way that should worry me.
I cross to the door and unlock the deadbolt he installed, pulling it open to find Holden standing there with protein shakes, wearing running gear that clings to shoulders I have no business noticing.
Sweat darkens his shirt across his chest. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and there's color high on his cheekbones from the run.
The apartment suddenly feels smaller. Like his presence takes up more oxygen than the space was designed to hold.
"Morning run?" The question comes out steadier than it should given how aware I am of every inch of him.
"Always." He sets a shake on the counter in front of me, close enough that his knuckles brush the ceramic edge. "You eat breakfast yet?"
"Yes." He quirks an eyebrow. "I had coffee. Coffee counts."
"Coffee doesn't count." He leans against the counter, all casual competence and morning energy that makes my own exhaustion feel heavier by comparison. "Protein shake. Drink it."
"Are you always this bossy in the morning?"
"Are you always this stubborn about basic nutrition?" He takes a long drink from his own shake, throat working in a way that draws my attention to the strong column of his neck. "You didn't eat much dinner last night either."
Because sitting across from him at the tiny table in my apartment, sharing Thai takeout like we were on some kind of date instead of a protection detail arrangement, had tied my stomach in knots.
Because being near him makes me aware of things I've been trying to ignore for weeks now.
The way his hands move when he talks. The slight rasp in his voice first thing in the morning.
The fact that he remembers I like chocolate peanut butter and extra vegetables in my pad thai.
"I ate enough." The shake is exactly what he said it would be. My favorite. Which means he's been paying attention to more than just security protocols. "Don't you have SEAL things to do? Team meetings? Training exercises?"
"I'm on temporary assignment. Protection detail takes priority." His gray eyes study me with that unsettling intensity that makes me feel like he sees past every defense I've built. "You sleep okay?"
"Fine." The lie tastes bitter. Nightmares about drowning, about Bruce finding me, about bombs and seabirds and threats I can't outrun had jolted me awake more times than I could count. But admitting that feels like handing him ammunition I'm not sure he won't use.
Except Holden isn't Bruce. Hasn't been Bruce in any of the ways that matter.
He doesn't call me on the lie. Just watches me drink the shake with that patient predator stillness that should feel threatening but somehow doesn't.
"Video call with Mason soon," I tell him, needing to break the tension building between us like humidity before a storm. "My research assistant. He's been compiling backup data since the boat explosion."
"I'll be next door if you need me." He pauses with his hand on the knob, and the morning light catches on the scar tissue across his knuckles. Evidence of a life spent doing dangerous things with those hands. "Fallon? Don't open the door for anyone unless I'm with you."
"I know the protocol." Days of following security measures has drilled it into my head.
"Never said you were careless." His voice softens in that way that does dangerous things to my carefully maintained composure. "Just making sure you're safe."
The lock engages automatically after the door closes. One of the upgrades Holden installed. Additional security that doesn't feel like a cage. Vigilance that doesn't feel like control.
Bruce used to monitor my every move. Check my phone, demand to know where I was going. Surveillance dressed up as concern.
Holden asks if I slept okay. Makes sure I eat. Gives me space while staying close.
The contrast is impossible to miss.
The borrowed laptop chimes with an incoming call. Mason's face fills the screen, disheveled in that familiar academic way that used to be endearing before someone blew up my boat.
"Dr. McKay." He grins, pushing wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. "You're looking remarkably alive for someone whose boat exploded."
"Remarkably alive is my new baseline." The joke falls flat even to my own ears.
"Well, alive is better than the alternative." His expression sobers, the humor draining away. "I've been reconstructing your data from the university servers and my local copies. Most of your research is recoverable. But someone tried to access the university files remotely yesterday."
Cold settles in my stomach like swallowing ice water. "Access how?"
"Brute force attack on your university credentials.
They didn't get in—IT security caught it—but the attempt was flagged.
" Mason's fingers fly across his keyboard, that nervous energy he gets when delivering bad news.
"Whoever it was knew your login structure.
Tried variations of your name, birthday, common passwords. "
Someone who knows me. Or someone who knows how to research me thoroughly enough to guess the patterns.
"Can they trace where the attempt came from?"
"IT is working on it. But Fallon, this is serious. Someone wants your research badly enough to blow up your boat and hack your university accounts. What are you going to do?"
"Stay alive. And finish the analysis." The words come out harder than intended, but this research matters. Could prevent disasters. Could save lives. "Send me what you've recovered."
"Just don't die before peer review." His attempt at levity doesn't land. "Your SEAL bodyguard still hanging around?"
"Lieutenant Commander Lange is next door. Temporary security arrangement." The clinical description tastes wrong, like reducing Holden to a job title diminishes everything he's actually doing.
"Good. Keep him close. And Fallon? Seriously. Be careful."
The call disconnects. Silence fills the apartment again, broken only by the distant sound of water running through the pipes. Holden showering in the guest quarters next door, washing away the morning run.
Focus on work. Pull up the recovered files, cross-reference the coastal data, look for patterns in the erosion markers.
Don't think about Holden in the shower. Don't think about water sluicing over those broad shoulders, down the muscled planes of his chest and abs.
Don't imagine steam rising around him, droplets trailing paths I have no business wanting to trace with my fingers.
Don't wonder what he looks like with his guard down, eyes closed, head tilted back under the spray.
Work. Research. Stay busy before this line of thinking leads somewhere dangerous.
Time passes in that strange fluid way it does when you're deeply focused.
The data analysis pulls me in, numbers and projections creating patterns that make sense in ways people never do.
The coastline is degrading faster than predicted.
Storm surge vulnerability increasing. Base infrastructure at risk if nothing changes, and someone wants this information badly enough to kill for it.
A sharp rap on the door jolts me out of the analysis hard enough that my coffee mug—refilled at some point I don't remember—nearly tips over. "Fallon? Need you outside for a minute."
Holden's voice carries an edge I haven't heard before. Tension wrapped in careful control, like a wire pulled too tight.
The door opens to find him fully dressed now in tactical pants and a black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the weapon holstered at his hip.
His expression is locked down, professional, but something dangerous flickers in his eyes.
Something that makes my pulse kick up before my brain processes why.
"What's wrong?"
"Your car. There's something you need to see."
Something. Not nothing. Not good news delivered in that tone.
Dread pools in my stomach as I follow him outside into sunshine that feels too bright, too normal for whatever is waiting in the parking lot.
My car sits in its usual spot. From a distance, nothing looks wrong. Just another vehicle among dozens in the apartment lot.
Then I see the windshield.
A fish lies across the glass. Atlantic croaker, full-grown, positioned with deliberate care that makes bile rise in my throat.
Seaweed is draped around it like decoration, sand scattered across the hood.
Someone caught this fish, killed it, arranged this grotesque display.
Blood and ocean water smear the windshield in streaks that catch the morning light.
And tucked under the fish, secured with the windshield wiper so it won't blow away, is a note.
White paper. Black letters. Words visible even from here.
Coastlines erode. Drown. Disappear. You will too.
The ground tilts. Or maybe I tilt. Hard to tell when the world has suddenly shifted on its axis.
Holden's hand catches my elbow, steadying me before I consciously register the need for support. His grip is firm, grounding, the only solid thing in a reality that just became a nightmare.