Chapter 2 #2
"You're a trauma surgeon, not a cardiologist. Stay in your lane, Doc."
Her eyes narrow, but she's fighting a smile. "Oh, you're going to be impossible to live with."
The words hang there. Live with. Both of us pretending we didn't just acknowledge that's what this is becoming.
"Probably," I say finally. "But I cook, so you'll keep me anyway."
"Confident."
"Realistic."
She shakes her head, but she's definitely smiling now. "I'm going to go get dressed. Try not to reorganize my entire apartment while I'm gone."
"No promises."
She disappears down the hall. I finish cleaning up, then check my phone for updates from Rivera. Nothing yet. NCIS works fast, but not that fast.
My phone buzzes. Text from Rivera:
Meeting at 0900. Bring Dr. Abernathy. Conference room B, hospital admin wing.
I respond:
Confirmed.
When Gwen emerges, she's dressed for the meeting—slacks, blouse, her white coat over one arm. Professional armor. The bruises are still visible, but she's covered what she can with makeup.
"NCIS wants to meet at oh-nine-hundred," I tell her. "Hospital admin wing."
"I figured." She accepts the fresh mug of coffee I pour for her. "Ready?"
"You ready to walk them through everything?"
"I documented everything. They'll have all the evidence they need." No hesitation. Just certainty.
The drive to the hospital is quiet. She stares out the window, running through her presentation mentally. I can see it in the set of her jaw, the way her fingers drum once against her thigh before going still.
"You're nervous," I say as we pull into the lot.
"I'm not nervous. I'm—" She pauses. "Okay, maybe slightly nervous. Last time I presented evidence to investigators, they twisted it into a malpractice case."
"That was different. These people want your help."
"You don't know that."
"I know how investigations work. They need what you found." I park, turn to face her. "You're the expert here. Walk in knowing that."
She takes a breath, nods. "You're right. This is just another case presentation."
"There you go."
The conference room is already occupied when we arrive. Special Agent Rivera and two other NCIS personnel. Base security chief. Commander Hartwell from base operations.
"Dr. Abernathy. Captain Caine." Rivera gestures to empty chairs. "Thank you for coming."
We sit. Gwen straightens in her chair, shifts into professional mode. I watch the transformation—traumatized woman from last night replaced by the surgeon who commands operating rooms.
Rivera pulls out a tablet. "Walk us through what you found."
Gwen does. Precise, methodical, presenting months of inventory discrepancies with the same calm she brings to surgery. Shows patterns, timelines, connects dots. Every statement backed by evidence.
I watch her work and forget to maintain tactical neutrality. The way she handles questions without defensiveness, the confidence in her voice, how she anticipates follow-ups and has data ready—it's impressive as hell.
She glances at me once during the presentation. Brief eye contact, checking if I'm following. I nod slightly. Her mouth curves, barely noticeable, before she returns to explaining supply chain manipulation to Commander Hartwell.
"Who has that kind of access?" Rivera asks.
Gwen lists names, positions, clearance levels. "I've flagged everyone in the spreadsheet along with their access patterns."
"The attack last night," Rivera says. "He knew what you'd found. Which means he's either one of the people you flagged, or working for them."
"Or both," I add. "Theft this systematic suggests inside access."
Gwen's looking at me with something like approval. Recognition that I'm contributing, not just providing muscle.
Rivera outlines next steps—full investigation, protection protocols, movement restrictions. The meeting wraps quickly after that. Professional, efficient, no wasted time.
In the truck afterward, Gwen lets out a long breath.
"That went well," I say.
"It did." She sounds surprised. "They actually listened."
"Told you. You're the expert."
"You contributed too. The inside access observation was good."
"Team effort."
She smiles at that. "Working together."
"Exactly."
I drive us back to her apartment. She's quiet, processing, exhaustion settling in now that the adrenaline of presenting is wearing off.
"You should rest," I say when we're inside.
"I should." But she doesn't move toward her bedroom. Just stands there in her kitchen, still wearing her white coat.
I step closer. "Gwen."
"I'm fine."
"You're running on fumes." I reach out slowly, ease the white coat off her shoulders. "Get some sleep. I'll be here."
She nods. Heads to her bedroom without argument. The door closes. Lock clicks.
I settle onto her couch, pull out my phone. Check in with my team lead. Review meeting notes. Run security protocols in my head.
Hours pass. Mid-afternoon, her bedroom door opens. She emerges in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, hair down, face clean. The bruises show clearly now.
"Feel better?" I ask.
"A little." She moves to the kitchen, fills a glass with water. "How long was I out?"
"Few hours."
"And you just sat there the whole time?"
"That's the job."
She studies me over the rim of her glass. "You're very committed to this job."
"Someone's trying to kill you. Seems worth being committed."
"Fair point." She settles onto the couch, tucks her feet under her. Picks up a book from the side table, then sets it down again. "This is weird."
"What is?"
"Having someone just... here. In my space. Watching."
"I can give you privacy if—"
"No, it's not that." She picks at the edge of a pillow. "It's just been a long time since I've had to share my space with anyone."
"Yeah. I get that." I lean back in the chair by the window. "I've been solo for four years. This is strange for me too."
"At least you're not the one being shadowed everywhere."
"True. I'm the shadow."
She almost smiles. "Very ominous. Do you practice that in the mirror?"
"Daily. Right after my tactical scowl drills."
That gets a real laugh from her. "I knew it. There's no way that level of intimidation is natural."
"Natural talent, actually. My sister says I came out of the womb glaring."
"Your sister sounds smart."
"Claire's brilliant. Rhodes Scholar, ran off to England, then came back to run the family ranch when she realized our parents were getting older."
"Sounds like she's the responsible one."
"Absolutely. I'm the one who joined the Marines and became a professional problem solver."
"Is that what you call it?"
"Better than 'professional breaker of things.'"
She grins, picks up her book again. Opens it, reads for maybe thirty seconds, then closes it. "I can't focus with you watching me."
"I'm not watching you."
"You're literally staring at me right now."
"Situational awareness. You're in my field of vision."
"Uh-huh." She sets the book aside. "What do you actually do on protective detail when the person you're protecting is just... existing? This seems incredibly boring for you."
"It's not boring."
"Watching me read is not boring?"
"I've done worse assignments. Spent three weeks in a hide site in Helmand Province watching a compound. Nothing happened. We just watched."
"That sounds terrible."
"It was. But we had Santos with us, and he's a surprisingly good conversationalist when he wants to be."
"Is he normally a quiet one?"
"Yeah. He observes everything, says nothing for hours, then drops some perfectly timed comment that makes everyone lose it."
She shifts on the couch, angling toward me. "Tell me about your team."
So I do. Tell her about Sullivan's terrible jokes and worse timing. Garcia's medical obsession and his running commentary during training exercises. Santos's ability to blend into any environment and his unexpected dry humor.
She asks questions, laughs at the right moments, and somewhere in the conversation we both relax. The strangeness of having someone in her space eases. The awkwardness of protective detail becomes something closer to companionship.
"You miss them," she observes. "Being on ops with them."
"Yeah. But this matters too." I meet her eyes. "Keeping you alive matters."
Color touches her cheeks. She looks away, picks up her book again. This time she actually reads, or at least does a better job of pretending.
I watch the parking lot, the street, and the approaches to her building. Run threat assessments. Plan responses.
But I'm also aware of her curled on the couch, turning pages, occasionally glancing at me when she thinks I'm not looking.
The afternoon fades toward evening. Light shifts, shadows lengthen. Normal sounds of base housing settling in for the night.
"I'm hungry," Gwen says eventually, closing her book.
"I can cook."
"You've already cooked once today."
"Your point?"
She almost smiles. "My point is you don't have to take care of me."
"We've been over this. Working together means both of us being functional." I stand, head to her kitchen. "Besides, I'm hungry too."
I make a chicken Caesar salad—simple, fast, filling. She watches from her perch at the counter, asking occasional questions about technique that suggest she's genuinely interested in learning despite her claim that cooking is beyond her.
We eat at her counter, shoulders almost touching, easy conversation flowing between bites.
"This is good," she says.
"It's a salad. Hard to mess up."
"You'd be surprised. I've burned water before."
That makes me laugh. "How do you burn water?"
"Left it on the stove and forgot about it. Pot was ruined." She grins. "Surgery I can handle. Cooking is apparently beyond me."
"Good thing I'm here then."
"Good thing," she agrees.
After dinner, we clean up together. She washes, I dry. Domestic routine that shouldn't feel as natural as it does.
Evening stretches toward night. Gwen settles back onto the couch with her book. I take my position by the window.
The difference is now she looks up occasionally and makes comments. About her book, about something she remembers from the hospital, about nothing in particular. And I respond, and we exist in the same space without it feeling strange anymore.
This protective detail isn't what I expected.
But watching Gwen read while evening fades outside, listening to her occasional observations, feeling the ease building between us—
Yeah. This is exactly where I'm supposed to be.