Chapter 5 #2
"You want discussion instead of orders? Fine. We'll discuss." He takes my bag before I can protest. "But when it comes to security decisions, I get final say. That's non-negotiable."
It's not perfect. But it's more than I expected. "Deal."
We load my Range Rover—my bag, my laptop, a few other essentials. Thatcher gives me directions to his place, makes me repeat them back.
"Stay close," he says. "If anything feels off, call me immediately."
"I know how to drive, Thatcher."
"I know you do. But humor me."
The drive to his place is short. I follow his truck through base housing to a different section than mine. His house is a corner unit with a view of the water. Everything about the exterior screams military regulation—neat lawn, trimmed hedges, nothing personal.
Inside is more of the same. Regulation-neat, nothing personal except photos on a shelf. Like he could pack out tomorrow and leave no trace.
"You'll take the primary bedroom," he says, carrying my bag down a short hallway. "It has an attached bath. More privacy."
"Thatcher, I can't take your room—"
"You can and you will." He sets my bag on the bed. "I cleared out a couple drawers in the dresser yesterday. Figured we might end up here. There's space in the closet too."
I follow him into the bedroom. It's simple but adequate—a bed with military corners on the sheets, a dresser with the drawers he cleared standing open and empty, a small desk under the window.
"This is very—" I search for the right word. "Spartan."
"It's functional."
"It's like a hotel room. Where's your stuff?"
"I have stuff."
"Where? Hidden in a secret compartment?" I open his closet. Five shirts, three pairs of pants, one suit still in dry cleaning plastic. "This is it?"
"I don't need much."
"This is sad, Thatcher. This is actively depressing." I close the closet. "You've lived here how long?"
"Few years."
"And you haven't unpacked?"
He shifts his weight. "I'm unpacked. This is unpacked."
"This is still in boxes emotionally even if it's physically here." I sit on the edge of his bed. "When Suzy died, did you get rid of everything?"
His expression goes carefully neutral. "This isn't about Suzy."
"It's a little about Suzy. You're living like you're deployed. Like you're going to ship out any day and don't want attachments."
"Or I'm just practical."
"Nobody's this practical. This is—" I gesture around the room. "This is commitment issues manifested as minimalism."
Something that might be amusement flickers across his face. "You psychoanalyzing me, Doc?"
"I'm observing that your living space looks like a hotel room and wondering if that's intentional."
"It's efficient."
"It's lonely."
The word hangs between us. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue.
"Help yourself to whatever's in the kitchen," he says finally. "I'll make coffee."
He leaves. I sit there on his bed, surrounded by his carefully controlled space, and realize I've touched a nerve.
Good. He's been touching mine all day.
I unpack, putting clothes in the drawers he cleared, hanging what needs hanging. The ensuite is clean but basic—one set of towels, military-issue everything. I arrange my things on the empty counter, set out my toiletries.
It feels too intimate. My shampoo next to his soap. My toothbrush in the holder next to where his will go.
Days or weeks of this. Of living in his space, sleeping in his bed, existing in this strange forced proximity.
I find him in the kitchen, coffee already brewed. He hands me a mug.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
We stand there in awkward silence. The anger from earlier has faded, leaving just exhaustion and the reality of this situation.
"I'm sorry," I say finally. "About the stuff I said. About your space being lonely."
"You weren't wrong."
"Still. It wasn't my place."
"You're living here now. Temporarily," he adds. "That makes it your place to comment."
I take a sip of coffee. "Ground rules. We said we'd establish ground rules."
"Okay. What do you want?"
"I want to be involved in security decisions that affect me. Not told after the fact."
"Fair. What else?"
"I want you to stop assuming I'm going to make emotional decisions just because I'm upset."
He nods. "And I want you to trust that when I make a call about security, it's because I know what I'm doing. Not because I'm trying to control you."
"I can do that."
"Good." He leans against the counter. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. You’re not sleeping in the guest room."
He goes very still. "What?"
"You heard me. This is your home. I'm not kicking you out of your own bed for weeks."
"Gwen—"
"We're adults. We can share space without it being weird." I set down my mug. "You keep your bed. I'll take the guest room."
"That's not happening."
"Then we both use the same room. There's enough space."
His eyes narrow. "You want to share a bedroom."
"I don’t want to play musical rooms like we're in some Victorian novel where propriety matters more than practicality." I cross my arms. "We're both professionals. We can handle it."
"That's a terrible idea."
"Why?"
"Because—" He runs a hand through his hair. "Because last night you called me out for pulling away. Now you want to share a bedroom?"
"I want to not feel like I'm disrupting your entire life. If we're doing this, we do it practically. You keep your space, your routine. I just exist in it for a while."
"That's not how protective details work."
"Then we're making up new rules." I meet his eyes. "Unless you can't handle it."
It's a challenge and we both know it. His gaze sharpens.
"I can handle it."
"Then it's settled. We share the space. Like adults."
"Like adults who are apparently determined to make this as complicated as possible."
"Apparently."
He shakes his head, but there's almost a smile hiding there. "You're going to be impossible to live with."
"Probably. But you cook, so you'll keep me anyway."
"Using my own words against me."
"Seemed appropriate."
The tension eases slightly. We drink our coffee. The apartment makes the small sounds of a building settling in for the evening.
"I should make dinner," Thatcher says eventually.
"I can help."
"You said you can’t cook."
"I can follow instructions. That's basically cooking."
He actually smiles at that. "Come on. I'll teach you how to not burn water."
We work in his kitchen—him leading, me following instructions with varying degrees of success. He's patient when I ask questions, doesn't hover when I chop vegetables. It's companionable in a way I didn't expect.
"Not bad," he says when I manage to sauté garlic without burning it. "You might be trainable after all."
"High praise from the efficiency expert."
"I'm not an efficiency expert."
"You reorganized my kitchen in under five minutes. You're definitely an efficiency expert."
"That's just practical."
"That's obsessive." I add tomatoes to the pan like he showed me. "But useful, so I'll allow it."
We eat at his small dining table. The food is good—simple a steak, salad, bread. Normal domestic routine that shouldn't feel as natural as it does.
"Thank you," I say. "For teaching me. For being patient."
"You're a quick learner."
"When properly motivated." I take another bite. "And I'm very motivated to not burn down your kitchen."
"Appreciated."
After dinner we clean up together. He washes, I dry. The silence is comfortable now, the earlier tension mostly dissolved.
Evening stretches toward night. I settle on his couch with a book. Thatcher reviews files on his laptop at the table. Normal evening routine except we're hyper-aware of each other in the small space.
Eventually exhaustion wins. "I'm going to bed," I say.
"I'll be there soon."
I head to the bedroom—his bedroom, our bedroom now, apparently—and change into sleep clothes. Brush my teeth in the ensuite. Slide under covers that smell like his detergent.
This is fine. We're adults. We can share space.
I'm almost asleep when the bedroom door opens. Thatcher moves quietly, but I hear him anyway. The bathroom light flicks on. Water runs. He emerges in sweatpants and a T-shirt, moves to the other side of the bed.
"You still awake?" he asks quietly.
"Yeah."
"This okay?"
"It's fine. It's your bed."
He slides under the covers, careful to keep distance between us. The mattress dips with his weight. I'm hyperaware of him there—the sound of his breathing, the heat from his body, the fact that we're in bed together despite all the reasons this is complicated.
"Goodnight, Gwen."
"Goodnight, Thatcher."
I close my eyes. Try to sleep. Fail spectacularly because he's right there and I can hear him breathing and feel the weight of him on the mattress.
This was a terrible idea.
Hours pass. I drift in and out of restless sleep. The unfamiliar bed, the unfamiliar sounds, Thatcher's presence—all of it keeps me from settling.
I need water, and realize he is no longer in bed beside me. I pad down the hallway in bare feet and sleep clothes, the house quiet except for the distant hum of the refrigerator.
Thatcher is already in the kitchen, filling a glass at the sink. He's shirtless, wearing only gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips. He must have removed the t-shirt. Muscle and scar tissue mark his torso—combat zones, close calls, narrow escapes.
He turns when he hears me, and we both freeze.
Dim light from the stove hood casts shadows across his face, highlights the hard planes of his shoulders and chest. A few feet of kitchen tile stretch between us.
"Couldn't sleep?" His voice is rough, low.
"Thirsty."
He fills another glass and holds it out. I cross to take it, and when my fingers close around the glass, his hand is still there. His skin is warm. Hazel eyes hold mine in the half-light.
Neither of us moves. My pulse kicks up, loud enough I wonder if he can hear it. I'm aware of how close we're standing, how little space separates us. The refrigerator hum fills the quiet.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
"This would be easier if I didn't want you so damn much."
My breath catches. I set the glass on the counter before I drop it. "Who says I want easy?"
I wait. My heart pounds. I want him to close the distance, to find out if he kisses the way he fights—with complete focus and no hesitation.
His hand comes up, fingers brushing my jaw. The touch is light, tentative, lasting only a moment before he pulls back.
"Gwen." His voice is raw.
"Thatcher." I step closer. "Stop pulling away."
"You know why I have to."
"Because of the protective detail? Because I'm vulnerable?" I shake my head. "We covered this. I'm not fragile. I'm not making emotional decisions. I'm standing here telling you I want this."
"You're also standing here because someone wants you dead. My job is to keep you safe, not—"
"Not what? Not care about me? Not want me?" I close the remaining distance. "Too late for that."
His jaw tightens. "If I get distracted, if I'm thinking about you instead of watching for threats—"
"Then we're both in trouble anyway." I reach up, touch his face. Feel the rough stubble under my palm. "You're already distracted. Pulling away isn't fixing that."
"Gwen—"
"You told me last night you were interested. You meant it?"
"Yeah."
"Then stop fighting this." My hand slides to the back of his neck. "Stop making it complicated."
"It is complicated."
"Everything's complicated. We can handle complicated." I pull him down slightly. "Kiss me."
For a moment he resists. I can feel the war in him—duty versus want, control versus surrender. Then something breaks.
His mouth finds mine and it's everything I expected. Focused, intense, no hesitation once he commits. His hands frame my face, gentle despite the heat between us. I rise on my toes, press closer, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat through my entire body.
The kiss deepens. His hands slide to my waist, pull me flush against him. I thread my fingers through his hair and hold on. This is what I wanted—all that controlled intensity focused on me, no more pulling away, no more careful distance.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, he rests his forehead against mine.
"This is still a terrible idea," he says.
"Probably." I'm trying to catch my breath. "But we're doing it anyway."
"Yeah." His thumb traces my jaw. "We are."
He kisses me again. Slower this time, thorough, taking his time to explore. My back hits the counter and I don't care. His hands are careful, respectful even now, but there's heat underneath the control.
When we break apart again, I'm shaking slightly.
"We should—" He stops. Starts again. "We should probably go to bed."
"Probably."
Neither of us moves.
"To sleep," he clarifies.
"Right. Sleep." I'm still holding onto his shoulders. "That's definitely what we should do."
His smile is slow, devastating. "Come on."
He takes my hand, leads me back to the bedroom. We slide under covers, but this time there's no careful distance. I curl into his side, his arm around me, his warmth seeping into places that have been cold for too long.
"This okay?" he asks quietly.
"Yeah. This is good."
His hand traces patterns on my shoulder. Gentle, absent-minded. Soothing.
"For the record," he says, "you were right earlier."
"About what?"
"About me living like I'm still deployed. Like I don't want attachments." His voice is quiet in the dark. "Easier to keep distance than risk losing someone again."
I shift to look at him. "And now?"
"Now I'm figuring out that some risks are worth taking." His fingers brush my cheek. "Even when they scare the hell out of me."
I kiss him softly. "We'll figure it out."
"Yeah. We will."
I settle back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling safe for the first time since the parking lot attack.
This is complicated. This is messy. This is probably going to make everything harder.
But lying here in the dark with Thatcher's arms around me, I can't bring myself to care.
Some risks are worth taking.
Even the scary ones.