Chapter 3 #2
"Boredom isn't really an option in protective detail." He scans the cafeteria entrance before nodding for me to proceed. "Besides, I've spent weeks in hide sites watching targets. This is comfortable by comparison."
"Weeks? Doing what?"
"Reconnaissance. Target assessment. Waiting for the right moment to act." He selects his own food with quick efficiency. "Patience comes with the training."
I grab a tray, start loading it with food that looks marginally edible. We find a table in the corner with a clear view of the entrance. Thatcher takes the chair with his back to the wall, eyes on the door, angling his body so I’m shielded from the room.
"How long were you deployed?"
"Most of the last decade. Rotation between training and missions." His expression shifts, jaw tightening slightly. "Suzy got sick during one of them. I came home for her final weeks."
The admission lands like a punch. I focus on my salad, buying time. What are you supposed to say to that? Sorry seems inadequate. The silence stretches too long.
"That's—" I set down my fork. "I don't know what to say to that."
He glances up, something almost like relief in his expression. "Most people say 'I'm sorry' and then get uncomfortable."
"I mean, I am sorry. That's terrible. But also—" I pick up my water glass, set it down again. "I'm really bad at this kind of conversation."
"This kind?"
"The emotional stuff. Someone tells me their wife died and I'm supposed to say something comforting, but I don't actually know what helps." The words come out in a rush. "I'm a surgeon. I'm better at fixing things than talking about feelings."
His mouth curves slightly. "That's refreshing."
"Refreshing that I'm socially awkward?"
"Refreshing that you're honest about it." He takes a drink of water. "Most people pretend they know what to say, then say something that makes it worse."
"What makes it worse?"
"Telling me she's in a better place. That everything happens for a reason. That I'll find someone else." He cuts into his burger. "There's no better place or reason. And whether I find someone else isn't the point."
I nod slowly. "Okay. So I won't say any of that."
"Appreciated."
We eat in silence for a moment. I should probably change the subject, move past this, but curiosity wins. "You said her name was Suzy?"
"Yes, Suzy." His voice softens. "English professor. Made Victorian literature sound like the most fascinating thing in the world."
"Did it work?"
"Sometimes. When she talked about it." He almost smiles. "She could make anything interesting. Had this way of finding connections between books and life that I'd never have seen on my own."
"Sounds like you miss her."
"Every day." No hesitation. "But I'm still here, so I keep moving."
The honesty of it catches me off guard. No deflection, no changing the subject. Just acknowledgment.
"For what it's worth," I say carefully, "I think being honest about missing her is probably healthier than pretending you're fine."
"You sound like you have experience with that."
"With pretending I'm fine? Yeah." I push lettuce around my plate. "Got good at it after the malpractice suit. Everyone asking if I was okay, and the correct answer was always 'yes, I'm fine, moving forward.' Even when I wasn't."
"What would you have said if you could be honest?"
"That I was angry. That I did everything right and still got blamed. That my own parents didn't defend me because I'd embarrassed the family name." I take a bite of salad, force myself to swallow. "But you can't say that in professional settings, so you smile and say you're fine."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It was." I meet his eyes. "Still is, sometimes."
My pager goes off, the shrill beep cutting through cafeteria noise. I check the display and my pulse jumps.
Trauma call. Incoming vehicle accident. Multiple casualties.
"I have to go."
He's already standing. "Lead the way."
The trauma bay is controlled chaos when we arrive. Multiple patients, varying severity. I assess quickly, prioritize based on injuries. A young woman with internal bleeding gets my immediate attention. Thatcher stays back near the entrance, but I feel his gaze tracking my movements while I work.
In surgery, everything else falls away. My hands know exactly what to do and doubt doesn't exist.
The woman stabilizes after hours in the OR. Her spleen comes out clean, bleeding under control. Vitals stabilize by the time I close.
When I finally emerge, exhausted and running on adrenaline, Thatcher is waiting.
"Long day."
"They usually are." I strip off my gloves, toss them in the disposal bin. "But everyone survived, so that's a win."
"You're good at what you do."
I glance at him, surprised by the certainty in his voice. "How would you know? You've been standing in hallways."
"I've been watching you work. The way other doctors defer to you. How nurses trust your judgment without question. The confidence in your movements." He shifts closer. "You don't doubt yourself in surgery."
"Only place I don't." The admission slips out before I can stop it.
"Why?"
"Because in the OR, everything is evidence-based.
Clear protocols, measurable outcomes. No room for politics or personalities or people questioning my competence because of my gender or my age or anything else.
" I lean against the wall. He's close enough now that I can feel his body heat.
"Surgery is the one place where skill is all that matters. "
"Should be that way everywhere."
"Should be, but it isn't." I push off the wall. "I need to check post-op orders. Then I can leave."
"I'll wait."
We head to the physician lounge where I use a computer to input orders. Thatcher stays near the windows this time, scanning the parking lot while I work. Typing medical codes and medication schedules should be routine, boring even. But the back of my neck prickles.
"You always stare at people like that?" I don't look up from the screen.
"Like what?"
"Like you're cataloging every detail."
"Situational awareness. Comes with the training." There's amusement in his voice. "Does it bother you?"
"I'm not sure yet." I finish the last order, log out of the system. "It's intense."
"So are you."
That makes me look up. Thatcher is watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Something heated and measured at once, like he's thinking things he won't say out loud.
"We should go." I reach for my bag. My heart is beating too fast. "It's late and I'm exhausted."
"You should eat something first."
"I ate at lunch."
"That was six hours ago, and you've been in surgery since then." He straightens from the window. "You need food."
"I need to go home and collapse."
"You need food, then you can collapse." His voice stays patient but firm. "We can grab something on the way, or I can cook when we get to your place. Your choice."
The presumption that he's coming to my place, that he'll be cooking in my kitchen again, should irritate me. Instead, I'm too tired to argue.
"Fine. Cook. Whatever." I grab my bag. "But nothing elaborate. I just want to eat and sleep."
"Understood."
The drive back to my apartment is quiet. I'm in my Range Rover finally, Thatcher following close behind in his truck. His headlights stay constant in my rearview mirror the entire drive, protective and reassuring.
He insists on clearing my apartment again before letting me inside. Checks every room, every window, every potential entry point. Military precision applied to civilian spaces.
"You're clear."
I drop my bag on the counter, strip off my white coat. Every muscle aches. The bruises are throbbing now that adrenaline's worn off.
Thatcher moves to my kitchen, starts pulling out ingredients. "Sit down before you fall down."
"I'm fine."
"You're swaying again."
"I am not—" I catch myself leaning against the counter. "Okay, maybe slightly."
"Sit."
I sit. Watch him work with the same efficiency he brings to everything. Within minutes, something's sizzling in a pan and the apartment smells like garlic and olive oil.
"What are you making?"
"Linguine. Easy to make and filling." He doesn't look up from chopping. "You need carbs and protein."
"You're very bossy about food."
"You're very bad at taking care of yourself."
"I take care of myself fine."
"Yeah?" He glances at me. "Before I cooked, when's the last time you ate a real meal at home instead of takeout?"
"I eat."
"That's not what I asked."
I pick at a loose thread on my scrubs. "I don't remember. Maybe a few weeks ago?"
"A few weeks." He shakes his head but doesn't lecture. Just plates the linguine with clam sauce, slides mine across the counter. "Eat."
It's good. Simple but good. I'm hungrier than I realized, cleaning my plate before he's half done with his.
"Better?" he asks.
"Yeah." I set down my fork. "Thank you. For cooking. For staying. For all of it."
"You're welcome."
The words hang between us. This strange partnership we've fallen into—protective detail that's becoming something else. Something I'm not ready to examine too closely.
"I should get some sleep," I say finally.
"Good idea."
I head toward my bedroom, then pause. "Thatcher?"
"Yeah?"
"The couch thing. You don't have to keep sleeping there. I have a guest room."
His expression shifts, something almost like surprise. "You're offering me a real bed?"
"It's just practical. You can't protect me if your back's wrecked from that couch." The reasoning sounds hollow even to me. "Guest room's down the hall. Clean sheets in the closet."
"Thanks."
I disappear into my room before this conversation can get any more awkward. Through the wall, I hear him moving around, settling into the guest room instead of the couch.
The sounds are different but still oddly comforting. Evidence that I'm not alone.
I slide under the covers, close my eyes. Tomorrow will be more of the same. Surgeries and rounds with Thatcher as my constant shadow.
But lying here in the dark, listening to him settle in down the hall, I realize I'm not as bothered by that as I should be.
And I'm not sure what that means.