Chapter 3
GWEN
Morning arrives too early.
Sunlight filters through my bedroom curtains, and for one blissful moment I forget about parking lot attacks and federal investigations. Then I shift position and bruised ribs remind me exactly why a Marine is sleeping on my couch.
I drag myself out of bed, assess the damage in my bathroom mirror. The scrapes look worse today, bruising dark across my cheekbone. My split lip is still swollen and tender. My wrist throbs where it connected with the car door.
Professional appearance matters in surgery. Patients need confidence in their surgeon, not questions about why she looks like she lost a bar fight.
Makeup helps. Foundation covers the worst of the bruising, though nothing hides the split lip completely. I dress carefully in scrubs and my white coat, pulling my hair back into a neat ponytail.
When I emerge from my bedroom, Thatcher is already awake. He's folded the blankets with military precision, restored my living room to its normal state. Coffee is brewing, filling the apartment with rich aroma.
"Morning," he says, standing near the kitchen counter. He looks composed in yesterday's clothes, hair damp like he showered in my guest bathroom. "How are you feeling?"
"Sore. Functional." I accept the mug he offers, our fingers brushing for a moment. The contact jolts through me. "Thank you."
"You've got surgeries scheduled today?"
"A couple this morning. Trauma on call this afternoon." I sip coffee, grateful for the caffeine. "Standard rotation."
"Then I'm with you." He says it matter-of-fact, like there's no question he'll be shadowing me through long shifts. "We should leave soon if you want time to prep."
Right. I don't just have a protective detail anymore. I have a Marine who'll be following me through the hospital, drawing attention.
We drive to the hospital together in Thatcher's truck since my Range Rover is still in the parking lot from the attack. The silence isn't uncomfortable, but I'm hyperaware of him in the driver's seat beside me, the controlled efficiency in every movement.
The hospital parking lot looks normal in the morning light. Nothing sinister about the rows of vehicles, the medical staff heading inside for their shifts. But my pulse kicks when Thatcher pulls into a space, remembering footsteps behind me and hands grabbing my arm.
He's out of the truck before I've even unbuckled, moving around to my door. By the time I grab my bag, he's scanning the area with tactical precision.
"Clear," he says quietly. "Let's move."
Walking into the hospital with him feels different than walking in alone. People notice. Nurses do double-takes. A resident I've worked with stares openly at the imposing man standing behind me.
Beth from the OR catches up to me near the surgical floor entrance. "Dr. Abernathy? You okay? We heard about what happened." Her gaze slides past me to Thatcher, eyes widening. "Oh. Wow."
Heat creeps up my neck. "I'm fine. Just bruised."
"Just—" Beth tears her eyes away from Thatcher. "Gwen, someone attacked you. That's not fine."
"I'm handling it."
"By hiring a bodyguard who looks like he could bench press a Humvee?"
"He's not—" I glance back at Thatcher, who's maintaining professional distance but definitely within earshot. "It's not like that."
Beth leans in, lowering her voice. "If all protective details looked like that, I'd be finding trouble on purpose."
My face is definitely burning now. "Beth."
"Just saying." She grins, then sobers. "But seriously, are you okay? Do you need anything?"
"I need people to stop looking at me like I'm made of glass."
"Fair enough." She squeezes my shoulder carefully, avoiding the bruises. "Your first case is prepped and ready. Gallbladder removal, should be routine."
"Thanks." I move past her toward the surgical floor. Thatcher's boots make almost no sound on the tile, each movement deliberate and efficient.
In the surgical suite prep area, I pause. "You can't come into the OR."
"Wasn't planning to." He settles against the wall, one shoulder propped against the doorframe. "I'll be right here when you're done."
"Surgery could take hours."
"I'm aware."
"You're going to stand here the whole time?"
"Part of the assignment." His hazel eyes meet mine, unwavering. "Do your work, Doc. I'll do mine."
There's something reassuring about his certainty. Like he's decided I'm worth protecting and nothing will change his mind.
I scrub in, focus on the familiar ritual of preparation. Soap and water, methodical attention to every surface. Through the window, Thatcher is exactly where I left him, standing watch.
The surgery goes smoothly. Routine gallbladder removal, textbook procedure. My hands are solid, muscle memory taking over. This is what I'm good at. This is where I belong.
When I emerge later, Thatcher straightens from his position. He falls into step beside me as I head toward post-op to check on the patient.
"How'd it go?"
"Clean. No complications." I strip off my surgical cap, shoving it in my pocket. "Patient should recover quickly."
"Good."
We walk through the hospital corridors. The way he moves catches my attention. All that precision packed into someone so large. People step aside without him saying a word, some instinct warning them off even in civilian clothes.
Dr. Randolph intercepts us near the physician lounge. "Abernathy. Good work as usual." His gaze slides to Thatcher with undisguised curiosity. "And you are?"
"Captain Thatcher Caine, MARSOC." Thatcher's voice is polite but carries authority. "Dr. Abernathy's protective detail."
"Protective detail." Randolph processes that. "Because of the attack?"
"Because of the ongoing investigation," I correct, not wanting to rehash the parking lot incident. "NCIS is looking into the equipment shortages I reported."
"Right. That." Randolph shifts his weight. "You really think it's theft? Could just be supply chain issues."
"Could be." My smile stays professional. "But I'm documenting everything until NCIS determines otherwise."
Randolph nods slowly, clearly uncomfortable, and leaves quickly.
Thatcher watches him go with assessing eyes. "He was nervous."
"Randolph gets nervous around authority figures." I push open the physician lounge door, grateful for the relative privacy. "Coffee?"
"Yeah."
The lounge is empty this time of morning, most surgeons either in the OR or making rounds. I pour coffee from the communal pot while Thatcher takes up a position where he can see both the door and the windows. Always cataloging exits, always tracking movement patterns.
"You're making people nervous," I say, handing him a cup.
"Good. Nervous people are careful people." He takes the coffee. "Better they're cautious than careless."
"Or maybe they're nervous because you're standing there looking like you're about to clear a building."
"I'm standing here drinking coffee."
"You're standing there drinking coffee while simultaneously cataloging every exit and calculating response times." I lean against the counter. "There's a difference."
His mouth curves slightly. "Situational awareness. Keeps people alive."
"In combat zones, sure. But this is a hospital lounge."
"Tell that to the guy who attacked you in the parking lot." He takes a sip. "Threats don't care about location."
"So I'm supposed to just accept that everyone around me is a potential threat?"
"You're supposed to accept that someone wants you dead, which means yes, everyone's a potential threat until NCIS clears them."
I set my cup down harder than necessary. "That's paranoid."
"That's realistic." He doesn't rise to the bait, voice staying level. "You think someone with access to hospital supplies is involved. That means it could be anyone who works here."
"Not everyone."
"No?" He gestures toward the door. "How well do you know Randolph?"
"Well enough. We've worked together for a little less than a year, but we’ve run into each other at conferences."
"And before that? Where did he work? What's his financial situation? Does he have any reason to need money badly enough to steal medical equipment?"
I open my mouth. Close it. "I don't know."
"Exactly." There's no judgment in his voice, just fact. "I'm not saying suspect everyone. I'm saying trust no one until NCIS clears them."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It's automatic now. Like breathing." He finishes his coffee. "You do the same thing in the OR—assess everyone's competence, track who's doing what, stay alert for problems."
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because in the OR I'm evaluating skill. You're evaluating whether my colleagues want to kill me."
"Both are threat assessment. Different applications, same principle." He rinses his cup in the sink. "You don't trust a resident you've never worked with to handle something critical, right? You verify their competence first."
He's not wrong, which is irritating. "Fine. But I'm not going to treat everyone like they're out to get me."
"I'm not asking you to. That's my job." He leans against the counter, arms crossed. "You focus on surgery. I'll focus on keeping you alive while you do it."
"By making everyone nervous."
"If that's what it takes."
I should argue more. Should push back on his certainty, his calm acceptance that paranoia is just good tactical planning. But my second surgery is scheduled for late morning, and I don't have time for philosophical debates about trust.
"I need to check on my patient," I say.
"Lead the way."
The hernia repair goes smoothly. Another routine case. Thatcher waits outside the OR again, and when I emerge over an hour later he's standing in the same spot, looking like he could stand there for another three hours without complaint.
"You don't get bored?" We walk toward the cafeteria. My stomach won't let me forget I skipped lunch.