Chapter 12
Tucker
Two weeks.
Fourteen days since the Tidehaven Inn. Since the dance. Since she drove away in a salt-sprayed rental car with mascara she didn't know was smudged and a manuscript I wanted to finish reading.
Fourteen days since take it slow became surface-level texts and carefully polite phone calls and the growing certainty that I'm losing her.
The Salt & Steel office is a converted warehouse in Beaufort—exposed brick, industrial lighting, a conference table made from reclaimed ship timber because Calder has a thing about aesthetics. The team is assembled for the morning briefing, and I'm here in body if not in mind.
"Brennan." Calder's voice cuts through the fog. "You with us?"
"Copy."
"I asked about the Hartwell debrief. Twice."
"Completed. Filed yesterday. Threat assessment updated, publisher notified. The letter found at the inn traced back to a fan in Savannah—no criminal history, referred to mental health services through law enforcement."
"Good. Next assignment—corporate event in Charlotte, three-day detail, starts Monday. You're lead."
"Understood."
The briefing continues. I take notes. Answer questions. Contribute to the tactical discussion about a dignitary visit next month. I do the job, and I do it well, because the job is the one thing that doesn't require me to feel anything.
After the briefing, Decker corners me by the coffee machine. "You look like hell."
"Thanks."
"When's the last time you slept more than four hours?"
"Sleep is a construct."
"Sleep is a biological necessity, and you're running on fumes." He pours himself a cup, leans against the counter. "This about the writer?"
"It's about nothing."
"It's about the writer."
The phone in my pocket buzzes. Channel 16.
Riggs: just saw on Instagram. Kassidy Monroe new book announcement!! "brEAKING POINT" coming next spring
Riggs: Tucker. TUCKER. did you see this
Decker: we're literally standing next to each other right now Riggs
I pull out the phone and open the link. Kassidy's author page, freshly updated. A cover reveal—dark blue background, white text, the silhouette of a man and woman standing on a beach. Breaking Point: A Novel by Kassidy Monroe.
And underneath, the dedication page preview her publisher shared: To T.B.—for showing me I still believe.
T.B. My initials.
The coffee in my hand goes cold while I stare at the screen. She dedicated her book to me. The book she was writing in our room at the inn, the book that has a hero with my face and my scars and my reading glasses. The book she wouldn't show her agent until it was perfect. She dedicated it to me.
And she still won't return my calls.
Not entirely true—she responds to texts.
Polite, friendly texts that read like correspondence between colleagues.
Hope you're well. Work is going great. The manuscript is coming together.
No mention of the inn. No mention of the kiss, the dance, the night.
Like it happened to someone else, or didn't happen at all.
I text her:
Me: Saw the announcement. The dedication. Kassidy...
The reply takes twenty minutes:
I meant it. How are you?
Me: I'd be better if you'd talk to me. Actually talk.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Kassidy: I'm trying, Tucker. I just need more time.
More time. Two weeks of time. Two weeks of careful distance, of edited messages, of the harsh irony of someone who writes love stories for a living refusing to have one.
Riggs: T.B. THAT'S YOU
Riggs: she dedicated the book to you!!!
Riggs: this is the most romantic thing that's ever happened to anyone on this team and I'm INCLUDING Calder's wedding
Calder: My wife proposed to me during a firefight. Let's maintain perspective.
Riggs: okay second most romantic
I close the phone. Decker is watching me with the quiet, assessing look of a man who's seen this particular damage before.
"She's scared," he says.
"I know."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
"Give her time. She asked for time."
"There's a difference between giving someone time and letting them hide."
The words hit with the precision of a well-placed round.
I look at Decker—solid, dependable Decker, who says twelve words a day and makes each one count—and see something in his expression that I recognize.
He's been here. Not with Kassidy, but with someone.
The knowledge sits in the lines around his eyes.
I throw myself into work. The Charlotte assignment is a tech conference—low threat, high tedium, a gig where the biggest risk is dying of boredom during keynote presentations.
I run the detail clean and tight, brief the client, debrief the team, and drive back to Beaufort with the road unspooling ahead of me and no destination that feels like home.
That night, in my apartment—a sparse one-bedroom above a hardware store that I chose for its exit routes and have never bothered to decorate—I open my phone and look at Kassidy's social media.
She's posted a photo someone took from a coffee shop. Laptop open, notebook beside it, a latte with foam art that she's captioned: Words are happening. First time in months that feels real. The post has three hundred likes and a comment from Diana Hartwell: That's my girl. Finish it.
She looks good. Happy, even. The shadows under her eyes from the retreat are gone, replaced by a brightness that makes something in my chest ache with complicated jealousy—not of anyone else, but of the version of her life that's working just fine without me.
The next morning, Calder calls me into his office. It's a glass-walled room at the back of the warehouse with a view of the harbor. He sits behind his desk—a man who ran combat operations for a decade and now runs a security company with the same controlled intensity.
"Close the door."
I close it. Sit.
"You're off your game, Brennan."
"The Charlotte job was clean—"
"The Charlotte job was fine. You are not." He leans back. "You're going through the motions. I've seen that look before. In the mirror, after I left the teams. And in every guy I've hired who's still trying to figure out what comes after."
"I'm handling it."
"You're surviving it. There's a difference." He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice has lost the commanding edge. This is Calder the friend, not Calder the boss. "The writer. Kassidy."
"What about her?"
"You're a SEAL. We don't give up. We assess, adapt, and execute. You've been sitting in the assessment phase for two weeks." He meets my eyes. "Stop being tactical and just tell her."
"Tell her what?"
"Whatever it is you've been not telling her. The thing that's keeping you up at night and making you useless to me during briefings."
I stare at the harbor through the window. A sailboat cuts across the water, heeling in the wind, moving with the certainty that comes from knowing your direction.
"She said she wanted slow," I say.
"She said she was scared. Those are different things. Slow is a pace. Scared is a barrier. You don't remove barriers by waiting. You remove them by showing up."
"When did you become a relationship counselor?"
"When my best operator started walking around like a ghost. Go. Fix it. That's an order."
"You can't order me to—"
"I just did."
Channel 16 buzzes as I leave Calder's office.
Riggs: Calder just told me Tucker's going to see the writer. CONFIRM??
Decker: how do you know that already
Riggs: I have sources
Calder: Riggs, my office door is glass. You were literally watching.
Riggs: my sources are excellent
Decker: good luck Tucker.
Riggs: GO GET YOUR GIRL
The drive to Charleston is three hours. I make it in two and a half, because priorities have shifted and the mission is clear.
I stop at a Thai place on King Street—the good one, not the tourist trap—and order enough food for two. Pad see ew, green curry, spring rolls. Not because I think food will fix things, but because showing up empty-handed feels like showing up unarmed, and that goes against every instinct I have.
Her apartment building is a three-story walk-up in a neighborhood that's equal parts charming and crumbling. I find her name on the buzzer and press it before I can talk myself out of it.
Static. Then her voice, tinny through the speaker. "Hello?"
"It's Tucker."
Silence. Five seconds. Ten.
"Tucker?"
"I'm not letting you hide. We need to talk."
More silence. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.
The door buzzes open.