Chapter 2
THATCHER
She disappears into her bedroom. The door closes, lock clicking into place. Smart woman.
I find blankets and a pillow, return to the living room.
Stretch out on the couch, immediately aware of how different this is from what I'm used to.
The cushions give just right, fabric soft against my skin.
Even the pillow feels expensive—down, maybe, nothing like the flat military-issue rectangles I'm accustomed to.
Her apartment smells like vanilla and coffee, underlying notes of antiseptic that clings to anyone who works in hospitals. Strange combination—domestic and clinical at once… just like her.
Despite the comfort, every sound registers.
Footsteps above us, a door closing down the hall, the heating system cycling.
Normal sounds of base housing, but my brain catalogs each one anyway.
Deployments in hostile territory make threat assessment automatic, even when I'm lying on a couch that probably cost more than my truck payment.
Sleep won't come easy. It never does when I'm on protective detail. But exhaustion pulls at the edges, and I let myself drift into that half-conscious state where I'm resting but still tracking my environment.
Gwen moves around in her bedroom for a while. Water running, probably washing up more thoroughly than the EMT was able to provide. The creak of bedsprings. Then silence.
I lie there in her dark living room, surrounded by furniture that's too nice for base housing, and try not to think about the woman sleeping one room away.
My mind keeps drifting back anyway.
Because I noticed Dr. Gwen Abernathy long before tonight. For months now, actually. I bring wounded teammates in for treatment—like tonight with Hayes and his dislocated shoulder from a training exercise gone sideways—and there she is.
Dark hair pulled back, scrubs that somehow look professional on her, moving through the trauma bay with absolute confidence. I've seen her work—once a routine case, once something critical. Both times I was struck by how steady her hands are, how calm her voice stays when everything's chaos.
Both times I made myself look away. Made myself not notice how beautiful she is, how capable, how entirely off-limits for a man who's kept everyone at arm's length since Suzy died.
That was years ago now. Cancer took her, and I held her hand while she slipped away after making me promise not to waste the rest of my life alone. I've spent those years ignoring that promise because distance felt safer than risking that kind of loss again.
Now I'm lying on the couch of a woman I barely know, aware of every breath she takes, feeling things I swore I wouldn't let myself feel.
Eventually exhaustion wins. I drift into restless sleep punctuated by awareness—every car door in the parking lot, every footstep in the hall, the shift of wind against windows. Training never lets you fully disengage.
Pale morning light filters through the curtains when I surface. It's early, the base housing waking around us. I'm on my feet before full consciousness returns, military discipline making the transition automatic.
The apartment is quiet. Gwen's bedroom door is still closed. My watch says it's early, but we've got enough time before the NCIS meeting.
I find her kitchen, start the coffee maker. The machine grinds beans fresh—nice equipment that speaks to money and taste. Everything in this apartment does. The furniture, the art on the walls, even the dishes in her cabinet. She works on a military base, but she comes from somewhere else entirely.
The bedroom door opens while the machine brews. Gwen emerges in her bathrobe. Her hair's damp from the shower, face cleaned of last night's blood. The scrapes look worse in daylight, bruising darkening her cheekbone. She's still beautiful.
"Morning," she says, voice rough with sleep. "Were you able to get any sleep?"
"Some. The couch is comfortable."
She smiles slightly. "I'd say it's a little short for you to stretch out."
"Point taken."
She moves into the kitchen, then pauses. Sways slightly. When's the last time she ate?
"Sit down before you fall down," I say, already opening her fridge.
"Excuse me?"
"You're running on empty. When did you last eat?"
"I don't—" She touches her forehead like she's trying to remember. "Yesterday morning, maybe?"
"Maybe." I pull out eggs, bacon, butter. Her fridge is too organized, everything labeled and dated like a surgical supply cabinet. "Sit down."
"In my own kitchen."
"In your own kitchen where you're about to pass out." I find a pan, set it on the stove. "Sitting is non-negotiable."
She doesn't sit. Instead she leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me like I'm a hostile witness. "You're very comfortable just taking over."
"You need food. I can cook. Math is simple."
"The math of you rearranging my kitchen?"
I glance at her. She's got that surgeon face on—the one she probably uses when a resident suggests something stupid. "I moved one pan."
"You moved my cast iron from the left burner to the right burner."
"Because the left burner has uneven heat distribution." I crack eggs into a bowl. "You want them scrambled with the hot spots or evenly cooked?"
Her mouth opens. Closes. "How do you know about my burners?"
"I pay attention." The bacon hits the pan, immediate sizzle filling her apartment. "It's kind of my job."
"Your job is keeping me alive, not critiquing my cookware placement."
"Multitasking." I beat the eggs harder than necessary, trying not to notice how good she smells even exhausted—something clean and sharp under the hospital antiseptic. "You got cheese?"
"Do I— yes, I have cheese. Top shelf, left side, clearly labeled."
"The labeling didn't escape my notice." I grab the cheddar, start grating. "Little intense for a home fridge, Doc."
"Says the man who probably keeps MREs alphabetized."
That almost makes me smile. "By expiration date, not alphabetically. Alphabetically is for people who like eating expired rations."
She makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be choking. "You're serious."
"Efficiency matters." I pour eggs into the pan, watch them start to set.
Her kitchen is too nice for base housing—high-end appliances, good knives, the kind of space someone who actually cares about cooking would set up.
But the fridge tells me she doesn't cook much.
Lots of takeout containers. Yogurt past its prime. "You don't use this kitchen."
"I work seventy-hour weeks."
"Noted." I fold eggs, add cheese. "Still seems like a waste."
"Are you seriously judging my grocery habits while making me breakfast I didn't ask for?"
"Yep." I plate the food, slide hers across the counter. "Eat."
She looks at the plate. At me. Back at the plate. "You're very bossy for someone who's a guest in my home."
"I'm not a guest. I'm your protective detail." I make my own plate, stay standing across the counter from her. Sitting feels too domestic. "Guests get asked. I'm assigned."
"Trust me, I'm aware." But she picks up her fork, takes a bite. Her eyes close for just a second. When they open, there's something softer there. "Okay, this is annoyingly good."
"Annoyingly."
"I wanted to be mad at you for taking over my kitchen." She takes another bite. "Hard to maintain righteous anger when someone's competent."
"You could try."
"Oh, I'm going to." But there's almost a smile hiding at the corner of her mouth. "Special operations Marine who cooks. What's next, you secretly play piano?"
"Guitar. Badly." I eat my own eggs, watching her start to relax as food hits her system. The tight set of her shoulders eases slightly. "And I wouldn't call this cooking. This is scrambled eggs. Cooking implies effort."
"It implies you knowing where everything is in my kitchen better than I do."
"You keep your spatulas in the drawer farthest from the stove."
"That's where they go!"
"That's where they go if you hate efficiency." I point my fork at her. "And your knives need sharpening."
Her laugh is sharp and surprised. "Oh my god, you're one of those."
"One of what?"
"Those people who can't just let something be. Everything has to be optimized."
"You're a trauma surgeon. You're telling me you don't optimize?"
"In the OR, yes. In my kitchen that I barely use, I don't really care if my spatula is eight inches farther from the stove than it could be."
"You should. Time matters."
"Time matters when someone's bleeding out, Captain. Not when I'm reheating Chinese food at midnight."
We're facing off across her kitchen counter, plates between us, something alive in the air that has nothing to do with equipment theft or protective details.
"Fair point," I concede.
"Was that hard for you? Admitting I'm right?"
"Agonizing."
This time she definitely smiles. Takes another bite. "You're not what I expected."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true." She sets down her fork. "I expected military efficiency and tactical protocols. Not someone who'd take over my kitchen and criticize my knife maintenance."
"I can do both."
"Clearly." She pushes her empty plate away. "Thank you. For breakfast. Even though you steamrolled me into it."
"You needed food. I provided food. No steamrolling required."
"You literally told me sitting was non-negotiable."
"Because you were swaying."
"I was not—" She pauses. "Okay, maybe slightly. But still."
I collect both plates, rinse them in her sink. The smell of dish soap mixes with lingering bacon. Behind me, I hear her move, sense her closer than she was.
"Thatcher."
I turn. She's right there, close enough that I can see the bruise on her cheekbone is starting to yellow at the edges.
"Yeah?"
"The whole 'working together' thing you mentioned earlier. Does that mean I get to criticize how you do things too?"
"Try me."
"You use too much butter."
I glance at the pan. "That's the correct amount of butter."
"That's a cardiac event waiting to happen."