Chapter 14
HOLDEN
Six months later, she still makes me forget to breathe.
Dawn light filters through the windows facing the ocean, painting everything in shades of gold and rose.
Fallon sleeps beside me, auburn hair spilling across my pillow, one hand curled against my chest like she needs to confirm I'm real even in sleep.
Her freckles are darker now after months of fieldwork in the sun, dusting patterns across her shoulders that I've traced with my tongue enough times to have them memorized.
I could watch her for hours. Have watched her for hours over the past months, learning things like the way she scrunches her nose when working through a problem, how she talks to herself when analyzing data, the specific sound of her laugh when something genuinely surprises her.
Yesterday I caught her having a full argument with a particularly stubborn piece of equipment, complete with hand gestures and creative profanity that would make my team blush.
She stirs, green eyes blinking open, and finds me watching. A slow smile curves her lips. "Morning, stalker."
"Morning, beautiful." I brush hair from her face, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "Sleep okay?"
"Always do when you're here." She stretches like a cat, unselfconscious in her nakedness, at ease in ways that still amaze me after everything Bruce put her through. "What time is it?"
"Early. We've got time before you need to be at the site."
Her research has expanded since Rexford's arrest and the recovery of the stolen data.
The base finally recognized what they had in Dr. Fallon McKay—expertise that protects rather than threatens.
Now she's consulting for multiple military installations, her work classified and crucial.
What Rexford tried to weaponize became the shield that guards against future attacks.
"Coffee first," she murmurs, already moving toward the edge of the bed. "Then shower. Then maybe another round of what we did last night if you're feeling ambitious."
"Baby, I'm always ambitious when it comes to you."
She laughs, the sound filling the bedroom, and disappears into the bathroom.
Water runs. Her voice hums something off-key.
I lie there soaking in the domesticity of it all.
Fallon lives here now. Officially, completely, with sediment samples in my garage and research papers scattered across the dining table and her presence woven into every corner of my life.
The cottage has changed since she moved in.
Books on marine biology sit next to my maritime history.
Her running shoes by the door next to my boots.
Coffee mugs with terrible ocean puns that she finds hilarious cluttering the cabinet.
Her laptop on the dining table surrounded by half-empty water bottles and protein bar wrappers because she forgets to clean up when she's working.
I make coffee while she showers, the ritual familiar now. Two mugs, hers with extra cream, mine black. Toast with the fancy jam she likes from the farmer's market. Fruit cut up and arranged on a plate because she forgets to eat when she's working and I've made it my mission to make sure she does.
She emerges from the shower wrapped in my towel, skin still damp and smelling like her shampoo mixed with the salt air coming through the open window. Before I can hand her the coffee, she steals mine and takes a long drink.
"Thanks for making breakfast."
"That was my coffee."
"Was being the operative word." She grins, unrepentant, and kisses me. Her lips taste like my coffee and I pull her closer, breathing her in.
"I love you," I say, because I can, because she's here and real and mine.
"Love you too." She sets the mug down, arms wrapping around my waist. "Even when you're hovering and making sure I eat."
"Someone has to look out for you."
"I'm perfectly capable of looking out for myself." But she says it with affection, acknowledging the care without resenting it.
Breakfast is interrupted by banging on the front door. I know that knock—Griff, punctual and impatient as always. Fallon laughs and waves me toward the door while she finishes getting dressed.
Griff and Thatcher stand on my porch, both grinning like idiots. "Morning, Lange," Griff says, pushing past me into the cottage. "Heard you're making breakfast. We're here to supervise."
"Supervise or mooch?"
"Both." Thatcher follows him in, nodding at Fallon as she emerges from the bedroom fully dressed. "Morning, Fallon."
"Morning." She's relaxed with them now, these men who've become friends through missions and proximity, who I trust completely. "There's coffee if you want it."
"See?" Griff settles into one of the leather wingback chairs like he owns the place. "This is what happens when you settle down. You become domesticated. Next thing you know, you'll be planning garden parties and picking out curtains."
"We already picked out curtains," I tell him, deadpan. "Fallon has opinions about natural light."
Fallon throws a dish towel at me. "I have opinions about not waking up to the sun blasting me in the face at five in the morning."
"Fair point." Thatcher accepts the coffee she hands him. "How's the expanded research coming?"
"Good. Really good, actually." She settles onto the arm of my chair, close enough to touch. "The base is taking coastal security seriously now. We're implementing new protocols across multiple training areas. It's the work I always wanted to do, just with better funding and actual authority."
Confidence radiates from her when she talks about her research. Passion evident in every word, hands moving to illustrate points, eyes bright with purpose. Six months ago she was looking over her shoulder. Now she's looking forward.
"And you?" Griff asks me. "Heard congratulations are in order."
The promotion came through last month. Lieutenant Commander to full Commander, recognition for the Rexford operation and the work our team has been doing. More responsibility, more operational oversight, but also the authority to make changes I've wanted to implement for years.
"Official ceremony is next week," I confirm. "Admiral wants to make it a whole thing."
"You earned it." Thatcher's approval means something. He doesn't give compliments lightly. "That offshore interdiction was textbook. Kowalski says you're the best commander he's ever worked with."
My team. Kowalski, Pike, Esposito, Reynolds. Men who follow me into danger, who I bring home alive. They've accepted Fallon's presence in my life with the easy camaraderie of warriors who understand what matters.
"Speaking of operations," Griff says, tone shifting to something more serious. "Commander Hartwell wants to brief us this afternoon. Something about the Rexford case and larger implications."
The good mood in the room dims slightly. Rexford sits in a military prison now, providing intelligence on the network he sold data to in exchange for a reduced sentence. The investigation revealed connections deeper than anyone initially suspected.
"I'll be there," I confirm. "Time?"
"Fourteen hundred. Base command center." Thatcher drains his coffee. "She's bringing in people from other installations too. Whatever this is, it's bigger than Tidewater."
Fallon's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. She knows what this means—more danger, more operations, the possibility of deployment to other bases. But she also knows I can't walk away from it.
"We'll deal with it," she says quietly. "Whatever it is, we'll handle it."
We. Not me facing danger while she worries at home. We, as partners who've learned each other's edges and decided to stay anyway.
After Griff and Thatcher leave with promises to see me at the briefing, I find myself standing at the window, watching the ocean. Fallon comes up behind me, arms wrapping around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder.
"Want to visit Wade?" she asks quietly.
My throat tightens. She knows where my mind goes when I stare at the water too long. Knows the weight I carry on days when missions loom and uncertainty creeps back in.
"Yeah," I manage. "It's time you met him."
The drive to the memorial park is quiet. Fallon doesn't fill the silence with empty words, just holds my hand while I navigate familiar roads. The park overlooks the ocean, peaceful in the way memorial spaces are, honoring the dead while the living keep moving forward.
Wade's marker sits where I left it years ago. Simple stone. Name, rank, dates, coordinates that match the tattoo on my forearm. Fresh flowers sit in the holder—probably from Wade's sister who lives nearby.
"Wade Garrison," I say, hand touching the cool stone. "My swim buddy, my friend, the brother I chose. He died in a training accident because equipment failed and I couldn't reach him in time."
Fallon stands beside me, quiet and supportive, letting me find the words.
"I blamed myself for years. Thought if I'd been faster, stronger, better, I could have saved him." I turn to look at her. "But you taught me something. That I can miss him and still move forward. That living isn't betraying him."
My hand finds hers, threading our fingers together. "I think he'd like you. Would've appreciated the grumpy marine biologist who doesn't let me get away with anything."
She leans against me, arm wrapping around my waist. "Tell me about him. Not how he died. Who he was."
So I do. Stories about training, deployments, the stupid jokes Wade used to tell that never landed but always made us laugh anyway. His obsession with terrible action movies. The way he'd call his sister every week without fail, never missing a conversation no matter where we were deployed.
Fallon listens, occasionally asking questions, understanding without me having to explain.
"Thank you," I tell Wade's marker before we leave. "For being my brother. For teaching me what loyalty means. I've got this now."
And I do. Finally, genuinely, completely.